Footsteps of Glory
by Emmelyn Cindy Mah
Summary: Diablo II: A druid of carefree spirit. A greatly inexperienced sorceress. What becomes reality when the two travel the Sanctuary in search of freedom? Chapter 31 - Cordelia comes to a startling realisation with the help of her sister, Estarra, while Saul and Aya tear holes in the underbellies of Jerhyn's palace.
1. Prologue: The Nonchalant Druid

**Title: **Footsteps of Glory

**By: **Emmelyn Cindy Mah

**Category: **Game/Diablo II, Lord of Destruction

**Sub-Category: **Action and Adventure/Drama/Romance

**Summary: **In the dark days of the Lords of Hatred, Terror, and Destruction, when all hope seems abandoned, several heroes of magnanimous differences undertake the greatest of burdens; the destroying of the three Prime Evils. This is their tale, as it is the tale of those who aid them for the freedom of the world they share.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Diablo II, nor the concepts of the areas within the game, and the character classes and skills. I do, however, own the characters themselves, their names, appearances, and garments. All non-player characters and monsters mentioned are not my own, save for the development of their stories.

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**Prologue: The Nonchalant Druid**

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Twilight came gently upon the grassy plains surrounding the rogue encampment, bringing with it the rolling, chilly mist of the mountains. Beneath the calm, silent serenity—the façade, it was near impossible to comprehend the true depth of the troubles plaguing the land.

He sat upon a log just outside the gates of the encampment, appearing completely at leisure as he whistled nonchalantly to himself. A long, crooked staff lay on the ground at his feet, adorned with a single emerald headpiece. Yet further along the log lay a pack; within which numerous glass bottles of crimson and navy were visible to the wary eye.

Several long moments passed in which he sat in silence, merely content, as it were, to gaze out into the vastness of the grassy moor. He whistled softly to himself, an old tune all but forgotten save for few of his kinsmen.

"What news have you this day?" The voice that spoke was brisk; he had a vague idea that he recognized its owner.

He made no motion to turn to her, though he leaned back just a touch, stretching his arms wide. "Nothing."

His lack of interest seemed to irritate the other, who promptly made to stand before him. Even as she bore down upon him, her icy-teal orbs flashing with unspoken annoyance, he smiled—brightly. "My rogue scouts are falling every day, and yet here you remain. Complacent." She hissed. "Do you care at all?"

He blinked placidly as he gazed at her for a moment or two, eyes mirroring mild surprise. "You have a really short temper, Kashya. Charsi warned me of it—guess I should have listened to her."

The one called Kashya narrowed her eyes. She opened her mouth, no doubt a retort ready, but he held up a hand to silence her.

"I shan't attempt to satisfy your demand for news. But if I may, I will address the other complaints of me." He continued. "Obviously, I have decided to aid your sisterhood in this battle against the darkness. Have I not single-handedly cleared the den of evil last week? Do you deny me a simple moment's peace?"

She glared at him.

"Good. I believe we are understood, then." He smiled, stretching easily once more.

Throwing one last withering look of disdain towards him, the revered captain of the rogue scouts turned on her heels, making to stride back into the encampment in which her, and her order, had made their home.

Truth be told, he rather sorry for her, and her sisterhood. Driven from their ancestral home by the forces of darkness had been tragedy enough; even then, after they had set up camp far from their home, the darkness had persued, and many of their sisters had since fallen to the demons of hell. When he'd first arrived at the encampment, they had been wary; suspicious. He did not blame them, for they had reason a-plenty for being so.

And yet, in the face of misfortune, the rogues held their tongues, refusing to complain and refusing to submit to their fear and despair. In fact, he'd always gotten the impression that the rogues rather hated being pitied, for all of their pride.

"You really should stop wreaking havoc upon Kashya's nerves, Saul."

For the second time that night, his brief resting period was intruded upon. He frowned. "Liene? Is your Captain shrieking her head off in there? Wait—" He smirked, drawing back from the Lieutenant of the rogues. "You aren't here to _make_ me apologize, are you?"

Liene smirked, shaking her head briskly. "You know, one of these days, you're going to need her help fighting the demons. When you do, heaven smile down upon you, because it will not be easy harnessing her aid, after all you've said to injure her." She lowered herself stiffly onto the log beside him, cradling her bow upon her lap as she would a priceless jewel.

He ran a finger along his clean-shaven jaw. His lips were curled into what was a rather rogue-ish smile. "Oh, she loves me. That's why she pretends to yell at me and such." Beneath the shadows cast by his dark, messy hair, his gray orbs twinkled with playful amusement.

"Don't let her hear you say that." Liene warned.

"She's listening. Not very amused, though."

Saul yelped, widening his eyes in mock surprise; he'd heard the Captain's footsteps, felt her presence long before she'd spoken. He threw both his hands in the air, in a gesture of surrender. Beside him, Liene jumped immediately to her feet, slinging her bow over her shoulder to greet her superior. Apparently, she, alone had been taken by surprise at the arrival of her Captain.

"Captain Kashya!"

"Would you please excuse us, Liene?" Came the cold, dour voice—the Captain clearly was not amused. She stood with her eyes narrowed, tapping one chain-shod foot impatiently upon the ground. "I have need to speak to Master Vyreant here."

Saul winced openly. "Goodbye, Liene. This may well be our last meeting." He released a loud, dramatic sigh, blatantly choosing to ignore the Captain's severe expression. Liene smirked, and, rolling her eyes, turned away.

The Captain stood in silence for a moment or two, her arms crossed over her chest. Clearly, she was going through a battle of sorts within her head; to trust the cocky stranger, or not. As though taunting her, he smiled lazily, before allowing his mouth to stretch into a giant yawn.

"Will we be speaking anytime this century, then?" He lifted both his eyebrows.

"Be quiet." She snapped. "And listen."

He gave her a mock-pout, but, though clearly amused, he remained silent.

"Flavie has informed me that there is something afoot within the burial grounds just yonder the Cold Plains." Kashya hissed. "Apparently… one of our rogue sisters, Alathea, has been seen wandering the paths around the tombs."

"And your point is?" Almost as soon as he'd opened his mouth, he'd regretted—She'd given him a look so stony, he was obliged to fall silent once more.

"She died over two months ago." This time, the words were not hissed; neither were they filled with contempt. There was, instead, a rather pained quality to the Captain's voice, as though the she were loathe to utter such words. "The only conclusion to this is that—that she's been bought over to the dark side."

Saul blinked. "Oh my." He said, having found no intelligent remark to make.

"She has fashioned herself a new name. Blood Raven, she calls herself now." Kashya seemed bolstered by his silence; she spoke with her usual authority once more—her lips thinning into a single, fine line. "And she is building an army of the undead; defiling the bodies of those long gone."

Saul sat in silence for a moment. "…Shall I suppose that you wish me to stop her, then?" He lifted a brow.

The Captain's lips thinned even further. She seemed to be considering him. After a moment, she nodded. "Please."

The stars now dotted the night sky from corner to corner; night had fallen. Saul gazed silently into the Rogue Captain's face; she, too, returned his stare, her's a stony façade. Finally, with a trace of his former smile, he nodded.

"I'll be on my way, then." He began, jumping lightly to his feet.

He'd already gathered his pack and staff, and had taken several steps from her, when she spoke once more. "When you do it—" she began. He noted the slight tinge of sadness in her voice, though he pretended that he hadn't. "—Do it gently."

He nodded. "I shall put Alathea to rest. Properly."

And without a second glance, he'd turned; the hem of his long, dark cloak billowing behind him. The Captain watched his striding figure for a brief moment, and she almost smiled. But then the moon disappeared behind the clouds; when it re-appeared, he was gone.

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**Author's Note:** Phew, what a prologue! Don't forget to click on the review button; drop me a line!


	2. Chapter 1: Within the Burial Grounds

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**Chapter 1: Within The Burial Grounds**

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The grassy plains were spread out in all directions. The occasional lone tree or shallow pond appeared at random, amidst derelict walls of dark gray stone that had been erected aeons ago to encircle houses long destroyed. Every now and then, a scavenger raven would caw, its hoarse complaint for flesh echoing undesirably around the demon-filled lands.

_Caw. Caw. _

The lone figure striding purposefully, albeit rather nervously along the pathway was rather a slender one; a young woman. In her hands, she carried a staff—and it was topped with a roughly hewn emerald of measurable size. Perhaps she'd wished to match her weapon to her clothes, for, whether intentionally or not, the jade-coloured headpiece fell upon the color of her cloak in absolute similarity.

She was fair, perhaps even considerably pale. Given the precariousness of her situation, however, she hardly cared, nor felt shame for the pallid hue of her complexion. Most would be frightened in her place.

Once or twice she'd stopped dead in her tracks, glancing furtively about her surroundings as her fingers tightened visibly upon her weapon. The silence emenating from within the plains seemed only to worry her further; could it be that the demons were planning a silent, and yet deadly ambush?

_Caw. Caw. _

She hastened once more, careful to avoid making more noise than was required. Stealth had never been one of her strong points, and more than once, she'd found herself tripping over a stray root, or a rogue boulder. It took all of her willpower to bite down, hard upon her tongue; to remind herself that cursing aloud would bring, perhaps, attackers in all shapes and sizes.

_Caw. Caw. _

Her nerves were getting the better of her now. Why, by the Gods, had such fear overtaken her? She knew not the answer to her question, for she'd never imagined herself such a coward. Steeling herself, and gritting her teeth, she chidded herself inwardly, a frown quickly making its way onto her face.

It would not do to back away. Not now.

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_Bawk off! _

Saul twirled his staff once around his hands, wrinkling his nose at the crimson demon before him. They were such annoying little monsters, and yet, once or twice, he found himself smirking in slight amusement at their inability to commune properly with one another. Often, they made noises that sounded as though they were a form of human speech; yet, said speeches were short, and spoken with such ignorant gusto that it was impossible for one such as the druid to keep a straight face.

_Yaagh! _

He could not help it. He smirked.

Perhaps the demon sensed his moment of weakness; it bared its teeth at him, waving its barbed club in a gesture of defiance. "_Ah-eh!_"

Saul offered that easy smile towards the demon; for a moment or two, it stared back at him. Then, without hesitation, and quite catching the druid by surprise, it lifted that club, and in one single movement brought it down upon his unguarded foot.

He swore heavily under his breath as the creature ran away, gleefully lifting its club and proclaiming its glory to his already fallen companions. "Pathetic little—" He grumbled. He was no longer amused.

The demon came running back towards him, its club raised; poised to attack. This time, he was ready. Narrowing his eyes in slight distaste, Saul muttered quietly under his breath, lifting his staff to point at the little crimson rat. It shrieked; the last thing it saw was the fury of the druid, and the last thing it felt, the icy-tempest of a whirling tornado. It exploded into a shower of crystalline sparks.

Saul smirked, all pain forgotten now. Revenge was sweet.

It had been hours since the moon had disappeared permanently behind the clouds. Saul did not much mind this, for he preferred the darkness; it provided cover for quick escapes, should all fall ill. Yet, he knew that he had little to fear, for he'd long since cleared out the majority of the demon tribes within the Cold Plains; and it was now in numbers far fewer than before, that the demons resided in. They knew of his pledge against them, and were loathe to do battle with him once more.

Not unless absolutely necessary, the little cowards that they were.

He whistled mildly as he marched along, his staff held loosely over his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he noticed the lurking movements of the resentful survivors of his last pilgrimage. Saul chuckled quietly, shaking his head as he strode away; they seemed to think better of persuing him, for, with broken mutters and dark whispers, they backed once more into their hiding holes—the shadows.

It was not until much, much later that he'd discovered the dismal entrance into the burial grounds. He was guarded now; whatever his skills in battle were, it was likely that his quarry was greatly more advanced in the ways of combat. Besides, he thought, with a grimace, if Kashya's predictions were correct, if Alathea had indeed succumbed to the forces of evil, she would have absolutely no reservations whatsoever about cutting his head off.

He swallowed. "Goodbye, Liene. You may never see me again." He smirked in spite of himself, rolling his eyes. The adrenaline was coursing through his veins—nervousness, mingled with a slight tinge of excitement.

Slowly, silently, he edged deeper, and deeper into the burial grounds' pathway. He held his staff at ready, and recited, as he went along, ancient spells of protection known only to his kin. Upon reaching the end of the alleyway, Saul lowered himself into the shadows cast by the low brick walls, studying the area with wary eyes. He winced.

The corpses wandered the paths about the gravestones in somber patterns. Perhaps it was his imagination, Saul thought, and yet, it seemed to him that the undead walked in pain; every step brought with it a low, raspy moan. He noted grimly, also, that these corpses were accompanied by ivory skeletal remains—these carried with them bone-hewn axes.

Despite their dismal, deadened appearances, Saul knew that they were quite the lethal army.

He allowed his eyes to wander, for he had yet to catch a glimpse of their leader. After a moment or two of scouring the area, his eyes fell upon a towering, though undeniably dead tree at the center of the burial grounds.

"Aha." He said.

She sat beneath the shadows of the branches, slowly, but steadily drawing upon the string of her long bow, and then releasing. She used no arrows, and it became apparent to watcher, after a while, that she was merely lost in thought; the repetitive action was naught but entertainment for her hands.

Saul held his breath. Her eyes were crimson, so bright that they were visible to him, even from such a distance. For a moment or two, he thought he'd saw a flash of sadness and pain flit through them; but the traces of emotion were quickly lost to a snarl of rage as a wandering corpse kicked her in the side, no doubt by accident.

It took but a second for her to slit its throat. Saul winced once more. He wished that his own throat would begin to feel less constricted.

There was nothing for it. It was now, or never.

With a heavy grunt of determination, the druid pushed himself to his feet, breaking into a run as he raised his staff towards the group of skeletons nearest to the entrance gate. Much too soon, Blood Raven lifted her head; she was aware of the human presence now. She got to her feet, snarling, as she drew back the string of her bow, took aim, and fired.

* * *

_Something was wrong. _

She gazed solemnly about herself, her brow furrowed in a would-be puzzled expression. How could it be that the plains were suddenly devoid of any form of demons?

Once or twice, out of the corners of her eyes, she thought she'd caught glimpses of crimson lurking deep within the shadows of the night. However, upon discovering no more than a frightened squirrel, she'd been forced to believe that her mind was playing tricks on her.

Still, it nagged at her, as an itch would any person. Something was wrong.

_Where were the demons? _

She tossed her hair irritably over her shoulder. Her nervousness had long since been replaced by suspicion and petulance, for she'd been anticipating battle. It was not as though she hungered for battle and blood; but that she'd spent days preparing herself emotionally for her first venture into the battlegrounds against evil. She was, oddly enough, disappointed.

And just like that, her fear was gone; impatience had overtaken her being.

She strode along the pathway, thumping her staff onto the ground with each step. There was no point in remaining discreet; no demon seemed intent upon attacking her.

Soon, she found herself standing before an alleyway of cobbled, gray stones. Curious, she leaned forward to peer mildly into the clearing beyond, only to find that numerous trees of various heights and widths blocked her vision. She swore irritably under her breath.

She was not, however, to be thwarted. Her curiousity would be sated. Gripping her staff hard, the young woman edged quietly into the alleyway. She held her breath as she moved, careful to switch her gaze back and forth between the knobbly, root-infested ground, to what lay before her. Somehow, she didn't think it would be in her best interests to succomb to carelessness.

"Join my army of the dead!"

She could barely contain the shriek of surprise that came to her throat. In her state of shock and fear, she'd somehow accidentally cast a spell; several tiny waves of lightning weaved about her in random movements. She yelped, jumping back and forth in a futile attempt to avoid the sparks, before coming to remember—the lightning would not hurt its summoner.

_Strange. _

The source of the disembodied voice seemed nowhere near intent upon hurting her. Indeed, she'd had little hope of surviving the anticipated battle, the second the voice had come to be, and yet, there she stood, seemingly unnoticed by all save for several hungry ravens perched on a high branch above her. She wrinkled her nose, puzzled.

"You cannot hide from me forever, maggot druid!"

And suddenly, it became apparent to her that she'd stumbled upon a battle, clearly, a heated battle—a battle in which she was not involved. A battle in which another was fighting. A battle in which, no doubt, one fighting would require aid. Pausing only to wish herself luck, the young woman dashed forward, staff raised. She had a bit of a smile upon her face; her first fight against darkness was just yonder. She was ready.

* * *

Saul ducked behind a random tombstone, cringing heavily as a rain of arrows pelted the area about him. Silently, he thanked the owner of the tomb; one called Ketia D'lhoran, who'd passed into the realms of the dead fifty years prior to the battle. In spite of his situation, he wondered vaguely, as a stray arrow flew dangerously close to his calf, whether Ketia D'lhoran walked now amongst the horde of undead.

"Face me like a man." Blood Raven called, her voice a low, taunting whisper, carried on only by the grace of the winds. "You cannot hide forever."

He sighed heavily. Little did she know that he had little intention of staying hidden much longer. It was either death, or victory, at this rate. Most likely death, he thought, with a grim smile. It wasn't until a second later that he caught a glimpse of a third party within the burial grounds. He frowned.

She was young, by his reckoning—much too young to be out and about in times such as these. Long, orange-red tresses trailed behind her svelte figure, and, with a pang of panic, he realised that she was making her way towards his opponent: Blood Raven. He blinked.

"Not good." He muttered darkly under his breath, making to get to his feet.

His opponent had not noticed this new arrival; with a yell of triumph, she drew her bowstring once more, the glimmering length of a magical arrow appearing in her fingers. "Now, you die."

Confronted with a likely painful arrow aimed at his face, Saul found that he could manage only a feeble smile. "That doesn't sound very nice." He said, finally. Desperately, he attempted to convey his message to the red-headed lass—for her to leave. "Can we at least talk about it?"

Blood Raven smirked, her crimson eyes swimming in contempt. "No." She hissed.

Saul sighed. It was uncanny, the resemblance between the corrupted rogue before him, and the Rogue Captain within the encampment. "Why not?"

The red-headed lass was now directly behind his opponent. He sought contact with her eyes; hoping against hope that she would understand that he was buying her time to get away. Blood Raven was speaking once more, but he heard nothing; he was too busy attempting communication. Finally, her pale-blue orbs fastened themselves onto his gray ones—He pleaded, he commanded, he begged, with his eyes, that she leave him to his fight. And yet, she remained rooted to the ground, her lips pursed in stubborn decline of his wishes. She shook her head.

Blood Raven was now impatient. The druid had wasted enough of her time. "Look at me. I want to gaze into your lifeless eyes as you die." She commanded.

Saul chuckled helplessly, shaking his head as he backed slightly. "Alathea, I really have no intention of dying today. Sorry to disappoint you."

The corrupted rogue spat into his face. "I am not Alathea!"

Saul inhaled, wincing slightly as he lifted a hand to brush the moisture from his face. "Very nice." He muttered.

Blood Raven released a blood-curdling shriek; she raised her bow, aiming; she was prepared to strike, and the arrow was aimed towards his heart. His eyes widened—she could feel his fear; she fed on it. She was tired of this battle, of this insect that chose to taunt her with his sharp tongue. Once upon a lifetime, she would've found him highly amusing, but it was no longer the case. She was almost a second from releasing the magical arrow, when a softer voice shrieked, from behind her—

"_Adis Lethanoia!_"

The corrupted rogue'd released her cry of pain long before the bolts of lightning had struck. Enraged, she'd turned, instead, to the newcomer. She'd almost laughed at the sight of her; a young sorceress, pallid, fearful—she would have fun finishing her.

"You think it wise to threaten me, young one?" She whispered, her voice cold. "Your magic is no match for me."

The young sorceress seemed speechless; her pale eyes widening in fear as she backed slightly. Chuckling darkly, Blood Raven advanced—an arrow notched within her drawn bow.

"Say goodbye, lass. Your time has come." She whispered.

A flurry of movement; a flash of silver, and a cry of pain. The young sorceress stood rooted upon the ground—a shriek had become stuck in her throat. The shrill cry that had pierced the night sky had come from Blood Raven.

Exhaling softly, even weakly, the corrupted rogue crumbled onto the ground; a short-bladed silver dagger embedded within her spine. Saul had chosen the most opportune moment to attack—when she'd had her attention upon one other.

The young sorceress stared from the broken body of Blood Raven, to Saul, who was bleeding at the lip. She blinked, clearly at a loss for what to say.

Saul frowned, kneeling before the twice-murdered woman. "I'm sorry it had to end this way, Alathea." He murmured. "I tried to be gentle." Without really thinking, he made to tug his dagger from her spine.

Almost immediately, a blinding flash of light filled the burial grounds. Saul yelled; he was blasted off his feet onto his back. It was several long moments before the light dissipated, restoring peace and silence to the dead. He winced. The body now lay mangled; in a condition far worse than it had been in after his dagger had pierced it. It was only then, in that short period of mourning, that he noticed the name etched upon the gravestone the corrupted rogue lay before.

Here lies Alathea Dracnogari.

He smiled, albeit a little wryly.

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**Author's Note: **Phew! There goes another chapter! I hope you enjoyed this chapter—it was done in rather a hurry. I plan on editing and re-writing it, but I thought it was best to write, before the ever-frightening writers' block hits me again!

The Phrenologikal Cat – Hullo, thank you so much for your review! I'm glad you liked my prologue, and I'm really thankful for that comment you left me. It makes my day! And, hah! My english is rather elementary, but thank you! I blushed to beetroot levels when I read your remarks. Thank you, thank you! Keep reading and reviewing!


	3. Chapter 2: Cordelia

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**Chapter 2: Cordelia**

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They sat before the fire, warmly wrapped in borrowed furs and cloaks. He sat with his back to the wheel of a caravan—Warriv's pride, as it were, whistling softly to himself. Of all the warriors within the camp, he alone seemed completely at ease.

In complete contrast against his nonchalant nature, she sat in humbled silence several yards from him. Her back was held stiffly upright in her seating position, though she was warmly wrapped in several borrowed cloaks. Once or twice, she'd caught his eye, though she'd almost immediately looked away—she was none too proud of her latest adventure. In moments such as this, she'd imagined that he was laughing inwardly at her; he seemed the sort.

It had been a day, and more, since their return. For one such as her, silence was a difficult feat; achieved only by means of severe embarassment. Now, however, Cordelia Elisse Ciryx found it extraordinarily simple to hold her tongue. She'd had enough of bravery for a month; perhaps for a year. The soft, presumptious murmuring of the rogues all around her served only to cause a heavy flush to rise to her cheeks. It was hard to believe that, less than thirty hours ago, their huddled whispers of her untimely interference in the druid's battle would have been fuel to her dragon-sized temper.

They were all marveling at her stupidity. She could feel it.

Wincing inwardly at her own folly, Cordelia twiddled gently with her own thumbs, before tugging the borrowed cloaks off her. She didn't deserve warmth. One by one, she began folding them; meticulously tucking the embroidered hems in. When she was done, she gazed meekly about. The druid was watching her, a good-natured twinkle within those eyes of his. She jumped to her feet, flushing crimson as she strode towards the blacksmith's tent; it was the tall, blonde woman who worked the forge who'd so very kindly handed her the stack of cloaks. The rogues called her Charsi.

"Thank you for lending me these garments. I am quite warm now." She murmured, not quite daring to make eye contact with the other.

The blacksmith chuckled. "You're still shivering." She observed mildly.

Cordelia frowned, shaking her head as she swallowed. "I'm quite alright. Thank you, m'lady."

The other laughed outright. "No one's ever called me m'lady before, miss. I'm but a humble blacksmith—call me Charsi." She smiled warmly.

The young sorceress returned her smile, however feebly. Still, when Charsi attempted to catch her eye, she glanced away. "I—uh. I mean, my name is Cordelia. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Charsi."

Charsi chuckled once more. She seemed amused. Whether it was at the expense her awkwardness, of at her earlier misfortune, Cordelia had no idea.

"That's a pretty name. How old are you?"

"Eighteen." Cordelia shifted her weight from foot to foot; Charsi seemed kind. It was almost as if she did not mind, in the very least, that the young sorceress had made a mistake.

"There is no need to feel awkward, Cordelia. We are all human, and are, therefore, capable of error. Don't punish yourself for whatever may have happened at the burial grounds." Charsi said simply, casually reaching over to take hold of a hammer. Holding it to eye level, she examined it for a second, before releasing a faint sigh. "All that matters is that both Saul, and yourself returned safely."

Cordelia blinked at the ground. Did Charsi have the ability to read minds?

"Oh." The young sorceress said, numbly, having found nothing better to say. "So his name is Saul."

Charsi nodded; she tugged a piece of bronze from the top of a makeshift table and began to hammer at it. "You haven't spoken to him yet?"

Cordelia flushed once more. "No."

The cold, hard truth was that she'd in fact been avoiding Master Saul. The fact that he, alone knew the details of the happenings within the burial grounds was embarasing enough. She'd reasoned, to herself, that he had absolutely no cause to tell the rogues of her foolish attempt at battling Blood Raven with her novice-level magic. However, her thoughts had caused naught but worry to enter her head; she was not relieved.

Even when she'd been under training, Cordelia had been extraordinarily prone to being affected by critique and embarassment. But then, amongst her mentor's many apprentices, she'd been the star. She'd been the one called on for demonstrations, and the one that her younger colleagues had looked up to. To find herself thrust suddenly into a situation where she was the underdog was difficult, to say the least, for her pride.

"You should. I know he looks arrogant, at a first glance, but he has a kind heart. Really." Charsi said. She was now attaching two pieces of metal to one another.

"Er—" Cordelia began. "I think—"

"—Don't think, just do it." Charsi said. "Get it over with. You'll have to talk to him _eventually_, right?" At this, she paused. "That is, if you're planning to stay?"

Cordelia released a helpless chuckle. The blacksmith had stopped working, and was watching her with a rather benign smile on her face. "I was about to say that he looks more—calm, than arrogant. But yes, I was sent to aid your cause, Miss Charsi. I will stay."

Charsi laughed. "Then I suggest you speak to Kashya, also. But do it after you speak with Saul. He might have some useful advice on our Captain." She grinned conspirationally.

"Where do I put these, Miss Charsi?" The young sorceress held the cloaks up.

"Over there, on that bench. And don't try to change the subject."

Cordelia swore softly under her breath. Clearly, the blacksmith was a sharp one.

It was little later when she'd finally left the blacksmith's tent. She felt better; less the victim of unsettled nerves, and more ready, somehow, to face what new embarassments she might receive. Twilight had fallen once more, pale pinks and oranges dotting the horizon to the west.

Master Saul was still watching her when she'd strode towards the campfire. She had a vague idea that he'd been watching her from behind whilst she spoke with Charsi. For some reason, the thought did not unnerve her anymore. Perhaps it was due to Charsi's words of encouragement, or perhaps it was the sudden surge of boldness within her chest. Cordelia found herself glancing over towards the druid. She caught his eye.

She smiled, and, though it was rather a small one, he looked rather taken aback.

It _was_ rather satisfying, Cordelia thought, as she stretched her arms out towards the skies.

* * *

He'd been watching her ever since their return from the burial grounds. Perhaps she knew, for, every time she'd caught his eye, she'd looked away almost immediately. He smirked at the thought; he only wanted to know how she was doing, how she was feeling. It was not as though he'd intended to tell the rogues of her badly timed interference in the battle. In fact, he mused, she hardly had cause to worry; it was her appearance that had caused Alathea to expose her back to his blade. He would've been able to finish the battle, and would've probably lived to tell the tale, but she'd definitely helped to end it sooner.

She'd not spoken a single word to him. He found it oddly interesting, though he was shrewd enough to hide it; besides, she had seemed rather afflicted by their last battle. Perhaps she'd felt embarassed at her lack of participation in the fight—to Saul, it seemed pointless. She was not experienced enough to be blaming herself for little mistakes as such.

As he watched her remove the cloaks, Saul found himself vaguely amused. She seemed intent upon ironing the creases from the material with her bare hands. Soon, she'd stalked away from him towards Charsi's tent. Here, he'd smiled—Charsi would make her see sense.

"Have I thanked you yet, Master Saul?"

Saul blinked mildly, shifting just a touch. Torn between wanting to watch the red-headed lass, and facing new company, he'd settled for a compromise position—one where he could keep an eye on both. "Yes, Captain." He smirked. "About a million and one times, I think."

Kashya offered a smile; one of the rare ones he'd chanced sight of since he first arrived, and clearly the first one directed towards him. "I am sorry. For my mistrust."

He'd been watching the lass shift her footing, as though uncomfortable. At the Captain's unexpected apology, however, he started, all thoughts forgotten. "Oh, by the Gods. This is a historical moment indeed!" He grinned. When she did not return his smile, he sighed; deflated. It would be for the best to simply say what she clearly wished to hear. "All is forgiven."

She nodded briskly. "I have nothing of high enough worth to give to you for allowing Alathea to rest properly. However, I can offer you my service, and that of my rogue scouts." Kashya crossed her arms over her chest. "Liene has expressed desire to aid you in your coming battles. If you will have her bow, and mine, then we are at your disposal."

Saul frowned. "You—" He said pointedly, "—have to govern the defenses of the encampment. You are the Captain."

Kashya seemed to take it as a personal insult. Saul raised both his arms as she towered over him—her patience had an unusually low limit. "I take it you refuse my aid, then?" Her chilly demeanor had returned—it was much less welcome than usual. "That is well, then. I am glad of this; I shan't have to put up with you."

His frown deepened. "Don't take it that way—" He began. She held up a hand, silencing him.

"Akara wishes to see you, and _her_. As soon as possible." The Rogue Captain said; stiffly, cooly. Clearly, she was going to be offended for a long time. And quite, quite obviously, she did not trust the red-headed lass.

And without a backward glance, the Rogue Captain stalked away, leaving Saul quite alone to his own devices.

Grumbling darkly to himself, Saul turned once more to watch the red-headed lass. She seemed quite at ease now. Somehow, he suspected that her topic of conversation with Charsi sat where he sat, wore his clothes, and bore his name.

After a moment or two, the lass returned to the fireside. She walked, now, with a renewed gait; she seemed less heavy, somehow. Saul nodded in approval to himself. Charsi had done well.

He had not expected as much as a glance from her; and so, when she'd turned, bold as thunder, to return his smile, he'd jumped. As she'd turned away, he could've sworn he'd caught a trace of a triumphant smirk upon her lips.

"Much better."

Saul lifted his head; the owner of the caravan upon which he was leaning stood beside him. "She does look much better, doesn't she?"

Warriv scratched mildly at his bearded chin. "Very pretty little smile she gave you, too. It would've been a shame if she were, indeed, a solemn little nightingale." He paused, as though thinking. "She looked the part two hours ago."

The druid chuckled—some part of him was amused. "True."

"If she is well enough to look you in the eye, Saul—you should go and see Akara." Warriv smirked.

Saul blinked reproachfully towards the caravan owner. "But that means I'd have to talk to her." He gestured vaguely towards the lass.

"Oh—don't tell me you don't want to." Warriv eased his arms back, stretching. "You've been watching her all day."

So someone _had_ noticed.

"She looked troubled." Saul said. He adopted a rather matter-of-fact tone. Technically, he wasn't lying—he had been worried for her, somewhat. However, he did not think that Warriv needed to know the extent to which the lass interested him.

"If you say so." Warriv winked. "Well, I'd best be off. Gheed wants a game of dice."

And he strode off, leaving Saul scowling into the small of his back.

After a moment or two, it became quite clear to the druid that the fire-clearing was empty, save for him, and the red-headed lass. He sighed, rubbing irritably at the back of his head.

She seemed less rigid than before. Occasionally, the winds would change, and he'd catch the gentle hummings of a soft, musical tune. It seemed vaguely familiar, but he found that he could not place it.

The truth, indeed, was that Saul rarely found it in himself to be interested, however mildly, in women. The fact that this lass had caught his eye was odd enough; that she'd managed, somehow, to keep him glancing in her direction for over an hour was nothing short of magic. She was pretty, it was true, but he'd seen prettier. Why, then, was he unable to tear his gaze from her face?

As though sensing his eyes upon her once more, she shifted slightly in her position. Perhaps she was uncomfortable. Saul found himself smirking just a touch. A moment later, he jumped to his feet.

It was time to speak to her.

* * *

Cordelia tossed several handfuls of grass into the fire, watching mildly as the crackling embers swallowed them whole. She was beginning to wish that someone would tell her what to do.

Her order had corresponded briefly with that of the Rogues'; the high priestess knew of her arrival. And yet, here she was, slumped in a corner of boredom. For a moment or two, a wave of self-pity washed over her. She scowled.

She could sense the druid's eyes upon her. It took a little while for her to realise that they were alone within the fire-clearing. Where were the others—the ones they called Warriv, and Captain? Cordelia sighed; instinctively, she began to tighten her vambraces—they had come loose during the previous battle.

It wasn't much longer before she became aware that there was someone standing beside her. She gasped.

"Wha—?"

Master Saul rubbed lightly at the back of his head. He held out his hand towards her, smiling easily as he did so. "I don't believe we've been introduced."

She tried to speak, but, in her shock, found she could only nod.

He chuckled. "Saul Vyreant." Pausing a moment, he withdrew his hand, producing, instead, a charming little bow. "Pleasure to meet you, miss."

Cordelia nodded once more. "And you." She began. "Corde—"

But she found herself cut off, as, at that precise moment, a cool female voice spoke: "The High Priestess wishes to speak to you." And then, a pause. "Now."

Master Saul looked just a touch annoyed; he glanced over towards the speaker—The Rogue Captain. "We were just going to see her."

"Then what are you waiting for?" The Captain lifted a crimson brow.

Cordelia blinked. For a moment, she found herself wishing that she were somewhere else; as easy as it was for her to witness battle and blood, she was a complete loss when it came to witnessing arguments. Clearly, this was a personal war. She watched solemnly between the druid and the captain.

Her concern, however, was short-lived; replaced almost immediately by surprise, as Saul held a hand out towards her. "Come on." He muttered.

She frowned at his hand, as though he were holding a poisonous reptile to her face—then pushed herself to her feet. He seemed mildly surprised, though he did not show it much; nodding vaguely towards a tent in a far corner of the encampment, he turned on his heels and was soon on his way.

Cordelia followed him; as she passed the captain by, she offered a tiny smile—and received a chilly stare in return. Her smile fading almost instantly, she found that it was all she could do to keep from running, as opposed to walking, after Saul.

The High Priestess of the Sisterhood of the Sightless eye was a tall, dark-haired woman. She stood with her back to them, her shadow cast in such a way that enshrouded her figure; she was more enigmatic than ever. Saul stood by the tent—no doubt the High Priestess's quarters, his arms crossed. As Cordelia entered into the warming light of the smaller campfire, he cleared his throat.

"Akara."

She was one who looked as if she'd been forced to gain maturity before the right age; her eyes were heavily lidded, and dark. Upon her forehead, chalky-pale, and prematurely lined, rested a single, tiny amethyst. She wore robes of darkest ebon, adorned poorly with scanty lengths of antique-gold thread. A hooded cloak of purple; befitting her station as the High Priestess had been clasped about her neck with a minute golden brooch.

Akara looked tired; almost as if she'd given up. And though she smiled, it could not be any clearer that she held naught but sadness within her soul.

"Good evening, Saul." She inclined her head gently towards the druid. He nodded in return.

Cordelia stiffened just a touch as the High Priestess turned, now, to her; she'd not expected to feel quite so sorry for this most revered of leaders. Even within her own clan, they'd heard numerous tales of those gifted with divinity. The High Priestess of the Sisterhood had been one of those most discussed. "High Priestess." She mumbled, dipping low into a perfect curtsey. It was of utmost importance to show good manners.

Akara smiled; she seemed almost amused by the young sorceress's gesture. "I have been waiting for you, child. Your Sire has been most avid in his description of you." She paused, gliding forward, as though to attain a better look of her. "You are most welcome here, Cordelia."

Perhaps Akara had known that Saul would start; she turned towards him, smiling wanly. He merely chose to stare back at her—it seemed almost as if he'd lost his voice.

"Cordelia is Medjai-Kiel." She said simply. The druid showed no sign of having recognized the name; she sighed, shaking her head and clasped her hands together. "So little world-knowledge, for one so bold, Saul."

Saul had opened his mouth—he was ready to retort, but the High Priestess held up a hand, her expression stern. She seemed to take his lack of knowledge of the Medjai-Kiel as a personal insult. He frowned; it was unusual for a man to sulk, but it became apparent that he was about to. Barely able to surpress a chuckle of amusement, Cordelia turned, instead, her attention towards the priestess's words.

"The Medjai-Kiel are an ancient clan of sorcerers and seers. They travel through the centuries—rather than make keep in one place. Within the ranks of the Medjai-Kiel—few women are born into sorcery, just as few men are born with the seer's gift." At this, she paused, nodding vaguely towards the young sorceress. "Cordelia is one of those most gifted with the arcane arts."

"I have been in touch with the clan leaders; Lord Oberon has been, for some time now, in the company of a growing shadow. His Queen, Lady Arlene has seen—and she is the most gifted, of all the Medjai seers, that the Lords of Hate, Terror, and Destruction are arising once more. At such news, surely, Lord Oberon thought, that he should train an army of mages to aid in the protection of our world."

"But alas—this was not to be. The Medjai-Kiel soon came under the attack of darkness, and many were slain. At such a time, I expected little that help would, or could, be given to us. I was torn between grief for those I had come to regard as my friends, and fear for that which, surely would soon befall my own order; but the good Lord and Lady sent word once more. I was to expect their most gifted—most trusted warrior."

Cordelia cleared her throat. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

Akara, however, smiled, and shook her head, if just a touch. "We are most blessed, indeed, to have acquired the aid of one such as yourself."

Heaving a faint sigh of relief, Cordelia nodded fervently towards the High Priestess. "I offer you my services, High Priestess."

"Gladly I accept."

Cordelia chanced a glance towards the druid—she barely managed, this time, to surpress her smile. He stood taller than either of the two women; his arms were crossed, and he had raised a single, dark eyebrow. From time to time, he tapped a foot vaguely upon the ground. He looked _bored_. Clearly, tales of ancient clans did nothing to amuse him. As Cordelia studied his visage, he turned, and caught her eye.

He offered a small, rather pained smile, though his eyes twinkled once more with unspoken amusement.

"There is a man we must seek counsel of." Akara had begun to speak once more; her voice was stiff now. "Deckard Cain is the last of the Horadrim. Without his expertise of the Dark Lords, we cannot hope to win this war."

"I suppose I am to look for him, then?" For the first time since silenced, Saul spoke; blinking mildly. He seemed bolstered at the prospect of leaving the encampment.

Akara regarded the druid silently for a moment, before nodding once. "I would consider it a personal favor if you did, Saul. Yes."

Saul smiled—and Cordelia was almost certain she saw a trace of the same smile lingering within Akara's lips. She could understand why; the druid was the very quintessence of walking charm. "Then it is quite settled. I shall—"

"_We_ shall."

Cordelia tossed her hair briskly over her shoulder as both the druid and the priestess turned to gaze at her. She smiled sweetly. "_We_ shall return Deckard Cain, High Priestess."

* * *

"_We_ shall return Deckard Cain, High Priestess."

Saul started. He blinked several times at the sorceress, his brow knitted together in a sort of hybrid emotion of surprise and unease. Perhaps she was teasing him, for she'd turned almost instantly towards him, giving him a smile that threatened to turn his stomach inside-out. Inwardly, he cursed himself for his lack of control. It would not do to fall prey to that smile. No, no, and no, a thousand times and more.

They were discussing other matters now; Saul found he no longer cared. Mumbling vaguely about needing to pack, Saul turned his back towards them, and began to stride away. It was not until he reached the end of the High Priestess's clearing, that he realised precisely how much his newfound fascination of the lass was going to cost him. He was a free spirit; he would love none but Nature.

He scowled. She would not be his undoing.

"Saul, wait!"

Or would she?

The druid wrinkled his nose, before turning to face her. "Oh, are you done, then?" He asked mildly.

She chuckled, nodding slightly as she reached back with her hands to knot her hair. "I didn't want to walk past the Captain by myself."

Saul found himself smirking in spite of the childishness of the comment. "Why's that?"

"She's just—" Cordelia began, frowning in thought. "—well, promise not to tell her?"

He nodded, curious.

"—She's just a little scary."

Saul simply could not help himself. The enormity of the words, coming from the mouth of an eighteen year old sorceress that was most likely able to protect herself in most situations, was much too much for him to handle.

He sniggered.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Wow, there goes another chapter. This is the longest chapter I've put out so far; here's hoping they're all satisfactory! I didn't get much action in this time around, but I figure, for most part, gore can be found from the game itself, whereas fanfictions are good sources for human relations and such.

These are some names that I'd thought y'all might have had trouble pronouncing, and some names which are supposed to be pronounced the way I state:

**Saul Vyreant:** Saw-l Vie-re-ant (as in radiant)

**Cordelia Elisse Ciryx:** Cordelia E-lease Sigh-ricks

**Medjai-Kiel:** Meh-dh-jai Key-elle

**Lord Oberon:** Lord Oh-brr-own

**Lady Arlene:** Lady Arr-lean

Special thanks to "**The Phrenologikal Cat**" and "**Ophelion**" for the deliciously happy-Emmy-causing reviews! I've been in high heaven because of them; and that makes me want to write more! Thanks, dah-links!

By the way, **Ophelion**, I wanted you to know that Cordelia's original name was Ophelia. I changed it last minute. Hee. And **Phreno**, I was reading your story; Cordelia looks exactly like Isolde! Talk about co-inkydink, huh?

Love you guys, keep reading and reviewing!


	4. Chapter 3: Across Windy Fields

* * *

**Chapter 3: Across Windy Fields**

* * *

Saul inhaled deeply, and gratefully, wrinkling his nose as he stretched; a first in many long hours. It was extraordinarily odd, he thought, that time was easier spent fighting evil, as opposed to packing for long journeys. He yawned; noting absently that dawn was descending. Though the first shafts of sunlight were only just hitting the grass, the rogue encampment was already abuzz with activity.

He was tired of packing; bored half to death of the contents of his pack, which he thought he must have checked a hundred and one times. He wanted to be on his way in the worst way possible, and yet, he knew that he would not be permitted to leave until the sorceress so desired.

He scowled. The idea of him waiting patiently, or _impatiently_, for that matter, for another was laughable. He had never been one to draw plans; he was a man of action. Several moments later, Saul came to realise that his scowl had further deepened; Akara had _known_ that he was not a patient person. Yet, she had been persistant in her requests, beseeching him to aid the young sorceress however possible, and insisting that he allow her to accompany him in his journey against hell itself.

He'd agreed, reluctantly, at first. The High Priestess was a woman that he'd held in reverence; he'd looked up to her as a role model, a leader in times such as these. Besides, he'd sworn fealty to her. To break such a bond would bring much dishonour to his kinsmen—a thing he could not risk. He did not usually show it beneath his handsome, carefree exterior, but Master Saul Vyreant was fiercely proud of his heritage and of his people.

Eventually, however, Saul had decided that he would rather enjoy her company. Something in her laughing eyes told him all that he needed to know of her—that he could trust her. She rewarded his faith with faith of her own; she trusted him, as he did her.

Try as he might, Saul simply could not understand his newfound care for the young sorceress. Something in her eyes and the way she moved drew him to her; he found himself wanting to make her laugh whenever possible. He enjoyed her smiles, as he enjoyed her words; as much as he denied it, Saul knew that he was a man smitten.

He'd supposed that it was merely infatuation. There were few women who'd succeeded in catching his attention, such as the sorceress had. His interest in her served only to intensify his infatuation; what did this woman have, that ensnared him so easily? It was all but a mystery to him—one which needed solving.

Crossing his arms, he glanced back and forth about the encampment. She was nowhere to be seen. For a moment or two, he considered leaving without her; but was almost instantly pulled back to reality by his conscious mind. Cordelia would _skewer_ him alive.

Having spent the last two days in her company, he'd come to realise several things about her; things he'd found amusing in many, many ways. She owned a flute; and she played beautifully. Being a self-proclaimed klutz, she tripped, often, over loose stones, or a rogue roots. She enjoyed talking; of herself, and of others. She appreciated jokes, and laughed as a man would—loudly, blisfully ignorant of her laugh which carried through the entire encampment. Like every other woman, she adored gowns and dresses of various materials and designs. Unlike every other woman, she enjoyed the taste of meat, and often preferred it to wilted salads and oatmeal.

And obviously, Saul thought with a grimace, she was one to plan ahead of every single thing. It seemed, also, that she was one to be obssessive over the most dreary, minute details.

He'd termed it simply—Cordelia suffered from the obssessive compulsive disorder.

He knew that her pack had been filled to the brim with various coloured potions; the blues slightly outnumbering the red, which, in turn, were larger in number than all others. Various lengths of bandages had been rolled into empty compartments, in between a large tome of portal-casting scrolls.

If he hadn't known any better, Saul would've thought that the sorceress was stocking up for an audience with the Lord of Terror himself.

Several minutes passed; many of the rogues had now left for patrol. Though the evil had been driven from the moors and plains with Blood Raven's passing, it had been agreed upon that constant patrols would be sent out daily to scout the area.

Just in case.

Saul laced his fingers together, enjoying the stretching exercise for a moment or two; and then did a double take. The Captain of the Rogues was making her way towards him, her lips stretched taut into a thin line. It was all he could do to avoid hopping to Gheed's; she could not tolerate the man.

"Good morning, Kashya." In complete contrast, he smiled; brightly. Somehow, he knew it would irritate her.

He was right. Her lips thinned further—and in addition to that, she narrowed her eyes.

When she said nothing, however, Saul cleared his throat. He unlaced his fingers. "Anything on your mind?"

She seemed to regard him calculatively; her teal eyes studying, first, his boots; and then, as though appraising his equipment, his gloves; his vambraces, his body-armor, and then, finally, his visage. She nodded stiffly. "Be careful out there."

Saul grinned; he was aware that it was a grin most impish. "Are you worried for me, then? I always thought you'd prefer me dead."

"Don't be stupid." Kashya snapped. She was scowling now.

He blinked several times at the Captain, his expression lingering between amusement and sheepish apology. "I'll be careful." He said, finally. "Anything in general I should be watching out for?"

Kashya placed both hands upon her waist. She was about to speak; the words were on the tip of her tongue when she was interrupted. "That Cord—"

"Alright! We can go now!"

Saul shut his eyes. Suddenly, he was very aware of the irony of the whole situation.

When he'd dared to open his eyes once more, he'd almost laughed; Cordelia stood a little ways distance from Kashya, her hands wrapped firmly about her staff. She was pale with shock—clearly, she had not expected company. Beneath the shadows of her jade-coloured cloak, delicate, interlocking chains of silver formed the armor protecting her abdomen. No doubt Charsi had taken it upon her to outfit their latest ally.

"_Tia-aldyn Cordelia._" Kashya spoke first, breaking the chilly silence with her cool, laconic tenor.

Saul was too pre-occupied to wonder at the significance of _Tia-aldyn_; he was attempting, however futilely, to stem a flow of amused chuckles. The Captain of the Rogues was the only one who'd, aside from Blood Raven, inspired such fear in the sorceress.

Cordelia paled; perhaps it was the Captain's spine-chilling tone, or perhaps it was simply the manner in which she was greeted. She offered the weakest of smiles, inclining her head ever-so-slightly. "Captain Kashya."

The silence endured; unbroken, for several long minutes—and shortly after, even Saul began to feel uncomfortable. He cleared his throat.

"Well, I suppose we'd best be on our way, then." He said, his voice oddly jaunty. "Come on, Cordy."

As Kashya gave him a withering glare, as though it were his fault that their conversation had been interrupted, Cordelia nodded fervently; bowing quickly towards the Captain, she reached over into Warriv's caravan, extracting her pack. With a toss of her hair, and the swish of her cloak, she'd disappeared behind the high wall that splitted the encampment from moor beyond.

Faced with one not so unlike Blood Raven, Saul found that he could manage only a feeble smile; he was mildly aware that he needed to leave the presence of the Captain. She seemed quite ready to pummel him to the ground. "Well, goodbye, Kashya!"

She did not call out to him as he darted behind the wall—for which he was grateful. Somehow, he did not think that she had anything pleasant to say to him.

Cordelia stood upon the path, her staff held rigidly in one hand. She wrinkled her nose, rubbing gently at her knee as the other strode to her side, grinning. "I don't know what I did to her, to make her hate me so." She muttered glumly. "I even fell, running from her. How often does that happen to adults?"

Saul chuckled, rolling his shoulders back into an easy shrug. "That's the way she is, Cordy. She doesn't hate you." He stepped lightly onto the pathway. "Come, we should be on our way. Your knee does not ail you?"

"No. Let's go."

They walked in silence for a several long minutes, the sorceress occasionally tripping on bits of uneven ground. More than once, Saul had to reach out, and, in the nick of time, grasp her arm firmly to keep her from falling. They'd laughed it off afterwards.

"How was she like when _you_ first arrived?" The sorceress said, much later, as she hurried along beside the druid; one step of his was equivalent to two of hers.

Saul smiled. "Like this. In fact, she was a right nightmare to me." They had long since passed Flavie's post, and had entered into the now-deserted plains. He found himself relaxing just a touch; there were no demons to be found.

"Worse than this?"

"Much worse. Honestly, this is one time where a blood-bond with the rogues' blacksmith does no good."

Cordelia blinked. "Oh!" She said, surprised. "You're related to Charsi?"

"She's my favourite cousin. Her father was my mother's youngest brother. They made their home within the monastery, you see. She takes after my uncle, I think." Saul grinned. "He was a blacksmith, too—and a right good one. He could fashion almost anything, with that hammer of his."

"She doesn't speak much of her past, though. I'd attribute it to the early loss of her parents." He paused, frowning just a touch. They'd arrived at a fork in the path of the plains just beyond the moor. "The rogues took her in as one of their own, and she was raised there. My parents loved Charsi; they would've taken her in. If only we'd have found out sooner."

"Charsi mentioned—" Cordelia began, rather uncomfortably, as though discussing others' past affairs was something of a great taboo. "—that she had barbarian blood in her. I'd have thought that she came from Harrogath."

Saul chuckled softly. "My mother's family—that is to say, Charsi's father and our grandfather, made the great crossing from Harrogath to here. They'd been commissioned to craft the weapons of the royal guards of Entsteig. The price that the King was willing to pay was worth a steady income of over five years. They would be fools to ignore such a commission."

"Charsi's father met her mother here in Entsteig, then?"

"In the monastery. My aunt was a fine rogue warrior." He smiled. "That same year, during the spring, my mother journeyed from Harrogath with our grandmother, for my uncle was to wed."

Cordelia sighed quietly, her lips curling just a touch. "How beautiful."

"Indeed." His eyes were twinkling as he spoke. "Since it was at their wedding ceremony, that my mother met my father."

"How did Charsi's parents know your father?"

Saul chuckled softly. "He was a bard. My father was a free spirit; as was his father, and all the men and women of his walk. He excelled in music—and he'd lent his harp in service to Charsi's parents for their wedding."

"But—" She frowned slightly; apparently, something was amiss in his tale. "—Don't your kinsmen; druids—don't they make their home within the shades of Scosglen? How come your father was so far from your ancestral home?"

"I have underestimated the expanse of your knowledge." Saul smirked. "My grandfather—that is to say, my father's father was the leader of one of the many clans within the druid clans of Scosglen; the Crëthe Daiore. The Daiore are the only druid clan to have ever journeyed, as a whole, across the realms; through Westmarch and Khanduras, through the great Aranoch Deserts. We have settled here, in Entsteig, far from our ancestral home."

"Why?" The sorceress seemed insatiable for information; the story of his past.

He was rather amused at her enthusiasm, though he did not quite put it into words. Instead, he chose to shrug, before stretching his arms out above his head. "My grandfather believed that our druid clans; our magic, and our bonds with nature should be shared within the other kingdoms, with those truly worthy of the love of the wilds—with those worthy of guarding the wilds against all that is evil. The Daiore left Scosglen with the blessings of the other druid clans. We do not guard the secrets of our magic zealously, Cordelia. We opt to share."

She was silent for a moment. Then, in a rather confirmatory tone, she spoke—"You have barbarian blood in you, then?"

"You have a lot of questions, don't you?" The druid watched her for a moment or two. He was found himself smiling at her seemingly endless tirade of questions. An opportunity to tease her had risen; he was not fool enough to question, nor ignore it. He grinned. "But yes, I have barbarian blood in me from my mother's side. However, I am quite clearly my father's son—I was born with his love for nature within my veins. Therefore, I am what I am."

She chuckled helplessly, rubbing at the back of her head with a rather sheepish smile on her face. "I'm sorry if I'd annoyed you with my questions, Saul—that's just the way I am, I guess. Too, too inquisitive for my own good." She paused briefly. "Its quite alright, if you don't want to tell me. I just—I suppose, I just want to know; to learn everything of this place and its people. It is all such interesting history. I wish I had access to the ancient monastery library."

Saul smirked, and poked her easily with his staff. "Don't apologise. I share this trait of yours—I enjoy hearing of others, and speaking of myself."

"I know. You speak of nothing else."

"I do!" He reached out with his staff to poke at her ribs; she jumped lightly aside, laughing hard.

They took the left turn, for the right led, beyond a doubt, to the burial grounds. Whilst it could not be denied that no more than wild hares and squirrels now haunted it, neither of them were very much inclined to visit such a place again very soon.

The sorceress was silent, now. She seemed somewhat afflicted by Charsi's tale. Saul was not much surprised by this; many were surprised, when confronted with the hidden past beneath the rogue blacksmith's kindly smile. It was not until they'd reached the rather-pebbly entrance to the Stony Fields that he'd extracted a question from the dark of his mind.

"What did Kashya call you again? Tia-aldyn—?" He queried, lifting a casual brow. It had struck a chord of curiousity within him.

Cordelia frowned. "It is a name that is used where I come from." She said. However, when she gave no further sign of wanting to elaborate, he gave it up as a bad job. Perhaps she saw the look upon his face, for she smiled, shaking her crimson head. "It's nothing bad."

They travelled steadily through the rocky plains. Cordelia had taken to mapping, roughly, the lay of the land; she did this quickly, in the rare instances where demons were few. For most part, she'd allowed Saul to take the lead in the heat of the battle. Every once in a while, however, she would lift her staff, and murmur quiet incantations under her breath, sending flaming orbs of crimson fire barrelling towards the evil ones; as they made contact with their quarry, these fireballs would explode—bursting forth into a shower of coal-hot, orange stars that the druid thought he could enjoy, no matter how heated the battles were.

The morning sun had long since lost its chill by the time Cordelia's map of the Stony Fields was half-complete. It was late—perhaps five hours past noon.

He was _exhausted_.

As they sat amidst an outcropping of boulders and rocks, Saul surveyed the surrounding area wearily; the numerous battles he'd fought in the duration of the morning had left him bloodied and bruised. He sported several deep cuts along the length of his arms, and a hideous gash had been raked along the side of his cheek—the handiwork of a corrupted rogue archer.

Several long moments later, he grunted; there were no demons to be found within close range of them. Not as far as _his_ eyes could see. He sank down onto cold, hard stone, wincing as his tired limbs found respite.

Cordelia eyed him dubiously for a moment. She, too, bore scars from the skirmishes, though they were far less, in number and in magnitude, when compared to that of the druid's. She lowered herself roughly onto the ground directly before the boulder upon which he sat.

"Hold out your arm." She said; swiftly, she reached into the depths of her pack, withdrawing a roll of bandages, and several identical crystal phials—all held within them crimson potions of restoration.

He lifted a brow. "Beg pardon?"

The sorceress motioned impatiently towards his weapon arm. "Hold out your arm."

He watched, curious, as she cleaned his wounds with a cooling, silvery liquid. When she dabbed at the cuts with a herb-infused strip of cloth, he'd yelped in pain. If she hadn't been holding his arm steady, he was almost sure that he would've yanked it away.

When she began to bind his arms carefully with bandages, he found himself gazing quietly into her eyes. It was highly unusual for him to be silent, even when tired from excessive combat; yet, he found that he could not quite control his desire to stare at her. She seemed oblivious to his gaze; or otherwise, was intent upon ignoring it. A moment later, she'd announced that she was done—after which she'd pulled the stopper off a phial of potion.

"Drink. It will heal your minor injuries, cuts, and bruises." She said, holding the phial towards him.

Saul wrinkled his nose, but downed the potion in two quick swallows. Perhaps it was his state of perpetual exhaustion, but the sorceress seemed unlike her usual self. This one seemed more tense, somehow. More cross, and less ready to laugh.

She watched him solemnly. "You should begin to feel better within two minutes."

Saul nodded obediently; already, he could feel the potion working its magic. His rib-cage, which, hitherto had been home to a dull, throbbing ache no longer bothered him. He found that he could flex his muscles without wincing.

Emboldened, he grinned.

He watched as she dabbed impatiently at her forehead with cloth—there rested a minor, bleeding cut. He smirked; she was wincing, for the herb infusion that soaked her washcloth was lethal in its own way—he'd felt its sting before.

She'd realised, by then, that he was watching her. With a frown, she lifted her eyes to his; grey met blue as the latter flashed—they were irate. "What?" She snapped.

Saul blinked several times. He had not thought that she would've held such a tone within her throat; the tone most often adopted by the Rogues' Captain. "Nothing." He said, finally. He'd decided against testing her patience.

They sat in silence for several long, terse moments, in which the druid gazed quietly about—he did not whistle the tune within his head, he did not speak. Truth be told, he was not very much afraid of invoking Cordelia's wrath; rather, he felt that she deserved a few moments' peace. She took his silence with rather an appeased humor, and did not once again bark at him.

Finally, she spoke, and, although her words were crisp and slightly frosty, she seemed less ready to bite. "Shall we keep moving?"

Saul nodded, jumping lightly to his feet. "I forgot to ask earlier. Have we found the waypoint?"

She lifted a brow towards him. "Waypoint?"

He stared at her for a moment. "And I should be assuming that you have no idea of what I speak."

"Obviously." She replied wearily. "How do these waypoints look? What is their function..?"

Saul sighed quietly, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Let's see. Well—" He paused momentarily, as though deep in thought. "—The mages of these lands; our ancestors, if you will, had them designed years and years ago. They served but a single purpose; to reduce the troubles of travelling."

The sorceress heaved a faint sigh. "How so?"

"Magic." He replied simply. "I do not know the exact mechanics of the waypoints' magic. If you wish, you may attempt to understand it when we return. That is your area of expertise, I believe."

Cordelia simply stared blankly about them for a moment or two; she bit down, hard, upon her lower lip, as though deep in thought. "It sounds much like teleportation." Her voice was low as she spoke.

"It probably is a form of teleportation magic." Saul agreed.

She scratched impatiently at the tip of her nose. "Will you know the waypoint when you see it?"

"Probably."

"Good. Let's keep going." She seemed impatient to once more be on the move, and, as she got to her feet, the druid smirked; she seemed much less clumsy than before. He'd said about as much to her, though the smirk of amusement was absent.

She'd given him a hard look, but had chosen to remain silent. Instead, they made their way further into the fields. Demons were few in numbers now, and only occasionally, did the lone blue carver threaten their passage. This was easily remedied by a single stroke of the druid's staff—the demons were none too brilliant.

Night fell swiftly as the winds began to howl. It was raining now, the crystalline droplets accompanied with various degrees of thundering booms and lightning flashes. Visibility was low.

Saul found himself glancing furtively around him. From time to time, he would find himself quite unable to see his companion, and his heart would still.

It was one of those moments; she was nowhere to be seen. He stiffened.

A moment or two later, however, he felt her bump heavily against him; the wind, no doubt, had swept her off her feet for the umpteenth time. He grunted, pulling her close against him. She was shivering.

"Oh, this is ridiculous—" The druid muttered irritably under his breath. The elements seemed determined to halt their progress. To one such as him, that was unnaceptable. After all, his kind were one with the elements. _He_ was one with the elements.

He was mildly aware that she'd fallen away from him; perhaps her legs, frozen from the cold, had given way. Regardless of his concern of her, Saul lifted his staff, holding it horizontally before him with both hands. He ploughed his way through the winds, grimly gritting his teeth; he, too, was freezing.

"Daughters of the winds! I beseech thee, calm thyselves!"

The winds tugged at his rain-soaked clothes, causing even his heavy cloak to billow about behind him. Shaking his head, the druid lifted his head—and his grip upon his staff was hard, as he raised his voice to the heavens once more.

"Calm thyselves! I am one of your kin; sworn to protect all that falls within Nature for all of my life. I beseech thee, calm thyselves! Allow me passage across your fields!"

Lightning flashed within the skies; electric yellow against the prussian blue surface of the night sky. Within seconds, the soft, echoing rumble of thunder followed. The rain was not repelled.

The druid, however, was not to be thwarted. If anything, his hold of his staff tightened; a sign of his unwavering determination. He called out once more.

"Hear me now! Calm thyselves and allow me passage!"

And, just like that, as quickly as it had begun, the winds calmed; the thunder silenced itself, and the lightning ceased to make its presence known. The rain remained—though in amounts negligable, when compared to its prior storm.

Saul stood silent, save for the gentle panting that seemed almost uncontrollable to him. The energy that had been taken to appease the wilds was magnanimous in size, and he felt rather more exhausted than he'd felt before the earlier break.

"S—Saul?"

He inhaled sharply as the name, diminished in importance in his attempt at saving themselves from the bitter cold, arose once more. Cordelia.

He turned. "Cordy!"

She sat huddled, on her knees upon the ground, her trembling hands wrapped firmly about her waist. Tears of fright had come into those pallid orbs; her hair was dishevelled, and dirt had made its way onto her face.

It was a true sign of how much he cared for her, at that moment, that he did not laugh at her appearance.

Even as he moved to scoop her gently into his arms, Saul knew that there was little chance of them finding their way to the waypoint without help. The darkness was simply too—there was no other way to put it, but, dark.

Cordelia stirred feebly within his arms. "What h—happens n—now?" She murmured.

"You're less tetchy when you're cold." Despite the precariousness of their situation, Saul found himself smirking.

She sneezed in reply.

The druid laughed quietly to himself, shaking his head; then re-adjusted his hold of her and whistled—the soft, slow tune that so very often came into his head.

Help was on its way.

* * *

The hawk soared through the skies, flapping her wings effortlessly from time to time. She scoured the lands beneath her, jade-coloured orbs wary.

She could hear the call.

Her kind rarely heard such calls these days; the land was corrupted—tainted with the blood of innocents. Tainted with the evil of hellspawn.

She'd fought against the call, at first. Ignoring the hauntingly enchanting notes rustling within the leaves, she'd sat huddled upon her nest; unwilling to heed the call of her summoner. She'd long since given up hope of fighting, and winning against the darkness. To aid in battle against such demons surely wagered naught but death.

As the seconds progressed, it became all too clear to her that her summoner would not relent; the druid that called her to aid possessed strength—great strength. She felt it within her breast, and such power tickled at her feathers. It was several minutes later that she unwillingly took flight, hoping against all hope never to catch sign of her summoner.

The magic drew closer, and closer, and closer. She could feel the call—the haunting tune, piercing into the very heart of her airborne soul.

Yes, her summoner was nigh.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Augh, there goes another chapter. I'm sorry that this one took so long! I've been plagued with tons of schoolwork, and problems; so much so that I totally got caught in a fit of writer's block. AND, I've had to go write for a competition, in which I used Saul and Cordy as my characters. I love them just too, too much.

As always, thanks go out to:

**The Phrenologikal Cat: **Yes! I am totally in love with Saul as well. Don't worry, though. You may share him!

**Ophelion:** Hee, I totally understand where you're coming from. Sometimes, chapters with all talk can get boring. I hope I've incorporated enough action in this chapter for your taste—also, there's more than meets the eye when it comes to both of them. You just have to keep reading to find out!

Thanks again, people. Keep reading and keep reviewing! Signing out for now!


	5. Chapter 4: Old Magic

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* * *

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**Chapter 4: Old Magic **

* * *

The prismatic hues wove gently in between shafts of bright white light; bubbles, of various shapes and sizes dotted the atmosphere. Wisps of solemn whispers beckoned from anywhere and everywhere—from whence, exactly, none knew.

She could feel the short blades of grass beneath her unshod feet as she ran, her arms flailing wildly about her. Her hair fell loose about her waist in light, airy curls. The wispy material weaving about her mobile legs told her conscious mind that she wore a gown.

_How was that possible? _

She had not been garbed in gown since the early days of her magi training. Whilst other women of her age, the seers, talked of silk and brocade, she'd dressed herself only in dark robes, as befitted the mages of her clan. The magi wore clothes suited to the harshness of their training—long gone were her days of all-seeing crystal orbs and flowing dresses.

It was simply _not_ possible.

Try as she might, she found that she could not stop running—her legs seemed to move on their own accord. The landscape; a bright blur of colours, seemed all but repeated to her. There was no telling the direction in which she moved.

No! She _had_ a conscious mind—it had told her as much as she knew of her surroundings. It occurred to her that her conscious mind would be that which saved her from this realm of the unknown. She shivered slightly at the thought; her breath was beginning to quicken, though her pace, and the swiftness of her run was no slower.

What am I doing? _Where_ am I?

It took several long minutes for her to fully comprehend the vagueness of her surroundings. Never before had she witnessed such a bizarre array of colours that, even now, surrounded her. Sure, she could feel the grass beneath her feet, but what mist there was enshrouded this grass in its murky depths—and she could see naught, save for the colours.

_Surely she was dreaming. _

She felt as if she'd run a thousand miles, aging with every step she took. It seemed so very long ago since she'd trekked the fields with _him_.

Even whilst she ran, she felt herself stiffen ever so slightly. Here, now, was a touch of recognition; a memory of her not-so-distant past. A memory of her reality. She smiled vaguely, though she did not know it. She remembered him now—they were travel companions.

_Saul. _

She did not realise it when her footsteps began to fade; slower, slower came the thuds of her feet upon the ground, until she came to a slow, silent halt. Only when her heart ceased to thunder against her chest did she understand—her dream was near an end. Gradually, the mist began to fade; the ground slipped away, and she was falling, falling..

* * *

"Cordelia!"

She gasped at the sound, bolting upright—one hand flew to shield her chest, the other flailed outwards in a feeble attempt to assault the speaker. Her eyes flew rapidly open, the pallid blues watering slightly, adjusting to the light.

"Whoa, Cordy! Calm down, you crazy woman. It's me."

She stared towards him, eyes widened, arms akimbo. "Saul?"

He smirked, crossing his arms. "Glad you recognise me. I was half afraid you'd send one of those fireballs at me."

It took her several long minutes to fully discern her surroundings—the rogues' sleeping tent within the encampment. She'd been placed upon a bunk bed facing the entrance, shafts of bright sunlight piercing the cover of her sheets. Someone had removed her armor—she now wore loose, flowing robes, for which she was grateful. Her back was somehow aching.

"How did we get back here?" She mumbled. Her voice was groggy, and, already, her head was beginning to hurt.

The druid studied her silently for a brief second, then answered, simply. "The waypoint."

Cordelia frowned, leaning back and clasping a hand over her eyes. It almost seemed, to her, that the druid wished to further irritate her with his nonchalance. "How did we get to the waypoint?"

"I walked." He said, lightly. Even with her eyes closed, she could sense his amusement, feel the cheek of his smile.

Her frown deepened. She was in no mood to jest. "I feel as if my skull has hacked into two, Saul. Please—don't amuse yourself at my expense."

For a moment or two, there was silence. And then she could hear his footsteps. Several seconds later, she felt his weight upon the edge of her bunk, and she shifted, to allow him space.

"You collapsed, remember? The thunderstorm—it was far too cold." He began. She was rather pleased that his voice was low; she could not, for the life of her, tolerate a high octave, or too pleasant a pitch in her present condition. "It took me a long while, but I managed to calm the winds. But—" Here, he paused. "—Even with the thunder and lightning gone, the rain fell, still, and it was cold. Very cold."

"You could not move on your own accord, and I had to carry you. I couldn't see very far—the rain was too heavy, and heavens, it was dark! I _had_ to call for aid, then." Again, he paused. "I called for one with the eyes to bring us through the storm unscathed. Thankfully, my call was answered, and within a matter of mere minutes, I'd stumbled—yes, literally _stumbled_, upon the waypoint."

"Akara was quick with her potions. If she hadn't been prepared—Well—"

"Well?" The sorceress had opened her eyes. Now, she gazed meekly up at the other; her fists were clenched.

He smiled wryly. "—I'm assuming you would have… er, moved on to the netherrealms. Your body temperature was too, too low, and it was all we could do to keep pouring warm potion down your throat."

Cordelia blinked placidly towards the druid. She was now faintly aware that she'd been tethering upon the brink of death. Clearly, she was not as strong in health as she'd like to believe herself to be. This new revelation brought about a wave of disappointment—for herself, for all she'd thought herself capable of. It was all fallen hope now.

She cleared her throat softly. "Thank you, Saul." She began, her voice low.

He smiled easily, arching back in a strong-limbed stretch. "Next time, _you_ can save _my_ life. Then we'll be even."

Cordelia frowned, tugging heavily at her hair. "Sure." Privately, she loathed her weakness, and doubted her abilities; collapsing as a result of some rain and thunder was surely a sign of weakness. She felt deeply ashamed of herself, though she said nothing.

He seemed to have noticed her discomfort, having studied her solemn expression for a moment or two. "You don't need to worry, Cordelia. I'm watching your back, and I will continue to do so." He grinned warmly, reaching over to give her a brisk one-armed hug. "Smile."

She blinked. His concern was kind, and the hug, most welcome. Even then, at the same time, she felt the urge to scream, to shout; to tell him that she was perfectly capable of watching her own back. Caught between gratefulness and fury, Cordelia found that she could only nod her head once—like a sleepy child. She cursed the blanketing feeling of helplessness that had somehow found its way into her chest.

"Smile." Saul was grinning at her again, his eyes twinkling.

She groaned.

* * *

He'd almost laughed aloud as she'd groaned. Truth be told, he had not expected any less than sulkiness from the sorceress, much less a smile. True to his prediction, she'd refused—she could not, or would not smile for him. This served only to amuse the druid; even as he left the rogues' sleeping tent, he found himself chuckling.

"She's awake." It was not a question, but rather, a statement.

Saul smiled brightly towards his fair-haired cousin. "Yes. She's awake now."

"That's good to hear. Akara was beginning to worry." Charsi wiped her soot-blackened hands on her apron, straightening for a better glimpse of him. Her hair had come undone of its braid, and her forehead was soot-stained. She grinned. "She must be hungry."

"Oh, yes. Ravenous, I think, was the word she used." He chuckled. "I was just coming to ask if you had any bread."

The blacksmith nodded swiftly—one hand worked the hammer at her forge, whilst she extended the other to point within her tent. "In there, on the table. I have some salted rabbit for her, as well."

If there was one thing that Kashya was lacking, Saul thought, it was the curiousity and kindness that his cousin had. Charsi was one to ask a million and one questions; she enjoyed trading stories with travellers. She had often taken the first steps in creating friendships with those who wandered into their midst. Where the other rogues were wary and untrusting, she was openly warm, and friendly to all she spoke to. Clearly, she knew the sorceress almost as well as Saul thought he did.

Lately, however, his cousin had seemed somewhat worse for the wear. He'd assumed that she was just tired. After all, days and nights spent repairing, and crafting armour for war could not be good for one's health, both physical and spiritual. Akara, however, had a different theory as to why the blacksmith was thus disheartened.

_The Horadric Malus_.

The enchanted hammer had been in his family for generations. It was said that his ancestors had built their lives around the magic of the hammer; imbueing weapons for gold to support themselves. In time, they had become wealthy, and the hammer had become an icon for prosperity. It was handed from parent to child; a most cherished possession. It was no secret that the Horadric Malus had been Charsi's greatest treasure.

When the hallspawn had begun their siege of the monastery, Charsi had been away with several of the rogues. It had been a sunny, clear day—the last of its kind to the present day, and the rogues had been eager for some fresh air. They'd journeyed as far as the Adura river, which now seperated the Rogue Encampment from the Blood Moor. They were far from the monastery when their sisters fled their ancestral home, perhaps never to return.

In their haste to exit the monastery grounds with their lives, the rogues had not the memory to rescue the hammer. When they'd finally congregated at the banks of Adura river with their sisters; it was too late—the monastery was overrun, and the hammer was lost within the depths of the barracks, within easy reach of the corrupted evils.

Upon hearing the tale of the loss of his cousin's beloved hammer, Saul had sworn that he would someday return to the monastery for the relic. It was only fair, given her unwavering kindness towards him. Besides, he'd always been of the opinion that family lived to aid one another in times of need. She was his favourite cousin, and she was in need.

He smiled at the thought, for he knew her well; she would shriek with joy at the return of her Malus, and the smile would return to that weary visage.

Even as he walked past her, balancing both food and drink in his hands, he leaned over and kissed his cousin gently on the cheek. "Thank you, Charsi."

She gave him a tiny, though rather devious smile—and for a moment or two, he was almost frightened. Then, with something of a twinkle in her deep blue eyes—"She's very pretty, isn't she?"

Saul wrinkled his nose at her, then turned on his heels, beginning to stride away. His cousin's laughter echoed heavily about the air behind him; and though he was amused, he scowled.

Cordelia was waiting for him, cross-legged upon her bunk bed when he'd returned. She'd changed in his absence; into an off-white undershirt, over which a sleeveless tunic of rough-cut, brown leather had been fitted, and black-leather pantaloons. She wore upon her face that same, solemn expression that he'd seen earlier—he rather wished she wouldn't frown so. For some odd reason, it caused him some amount of grief to know that she was unhappy.

"Food." He said simply, setting the laden plate before her. The goblet of water, he'd placed on the makeshift table beside her bunk; it would not do to spill any of it. Good, clean, crystal-clear water was very hard to come by—many water sources of the realms were now poisoned, or contamined with corpses and demon-blood.

She took the goblet and drank deeply, though her eyes remained somber. She said nothing.

"Ahem." Saul cleared his throat loudly as he settled himself onto the bunk beside her. He rather hoped she would smile; or else, release that small, sheepish laugh that he'd often heard of her.

"What?" She lifted a quizzical brow towards him—surprised at such a response, he smiled slightly, deliberately stalling for time as he scratched mildly at the back of his head.

"Well—" He began. Somehow, he did not think that she would appreciate his interference; and yet, he could not bear the thought of her sadness. "—For what its worth, Cordelia, I do not believe you are weak." He paused briefly, his eyes searching her face for traces of emotion. When she did nothing, said nothing, he continued. "On several occasions, I have felt useless; I have felt the shame that comes with weakness in body and in mind. I believe I saw that same line of thought flicker through your eyes." His voice was quiet. "Perhaps I am wrong. You needn't mind my words, if I am."

The sorceress stared at him for a moment or two; then, quite without warning, burst into tears. The noisy kind.

Saul frowned. Truth be told, he had little experience in the comforting of crying females—the women in his family were not much of teary-eyed damsels. The Vyreants were a proud, headstrong crowd; his sisters _never_ wept, for any reason known and unknown to mankind. The rogues never cried either; they, too, were far too proud—too headstrong to shed tears.

For several long seconds, he watched the sorceress cry in earnest. Then, tentatively, almost as a frightened child would, he stretched out towards her; and with rather an uncomfortable air, patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.

"There, you silly girl. There's no need to cry." He mumbled, half wishing he'd witnessed such a situation in his youth. Surely then, he wouldn't be at a loss of what to say.

To his utter dismay, she sobbed—harder than ever.

"Don't cry." Saul wrinkled his brow as he patted her shoulder again, and again. "Please?" Nervousness and desperation were mingled within his chest now.

It seemed an age before she consented to lift her head slightly, and for a moment or two, he caught sight of two tear-stained orbs of pale blue; and this was quickly hidden away beneath her palms. Her breath came in soft, ragged gasps. It must, however, be admitted that the gasps began to subside, if only by a little. Slowly, very slowly, the sobs silenced themselves, and her body stilled—she ceased to shiver.

Saul quirked a tiny smile at her, though he knew she was not looking. "Feeling better?"

"Y—Yes." She sniffled softly, rubbing at her crimson nose with her fist.

The druid nodded firmly. "Good."

She seemed mildly aware of his hand upon her shoulder now, and, as she cleared her throat softly, Saul found himself starting—with a quiet cough, he removed his hand, and stood.

"Eat. Then rest. By tomorrow, we _must_—" His voice was quiet, though the emphasis upon each word was crystal clear, "—enter the tunnels through the Stony Fields. I _need_ you with me."

The sorceress gazed solemnly at him, and her eyes were puffy, red, from her tears. Her lips were set in a somewhat determined line; it emboldened him to see that he'd somehow given her hope. She was clearly in short supply of such an emotion.

Very slowly, in a movement almost undetectable, she nodded.

* * *

It was two hours past mid-day when the sorceress emerged from the rogues' sleeping tent, fully armored and fully equipped. Her crimson hair had been pulled tight into a knot—she'd fastened this knot with a thin, quill-length needle of faded gold. Every inch of her body was tensed, prepared for battle. Collapsing again was not an option.

"In my experience, women take twice as long to dress in finery, than in battle-garb. If this is how long it takes for you to put on your armor, I shudder at the amount of time you should take to prepare for balls and such other events."

Cordelia scowled ever so slightly as she tightened her vambraces, though she chose to ignore the druid—he stood beside her, his back upon one of the many poles supporting the tent.

Saul gave a little laugh as he pushed himself off the pole. "Are you alright? Usually, you bite back."

"I'm fine." She threw her pack over her shoulders. "I simply have no smart remark to make."

The druid released a half-hearted chuckle. Cordelia frowned; she could feel his eyes boring into the back of her skull as she reached out to take a hold of her staff—it lay against the entrance of the tent. "Stop it, Saul. I'm okay, I promise." She turned to face him.

He watched her for a moment or two, his gray eyes studying her visage with an uncomfortable kind of intensity. Finally, with rather a resigned air, he shrugged, and nodded. "If you say so."

They made their way across the encampment, with Saul leading the way—past Warriv and Gheed, who were arguing about one thing or another. The bonfire clearing was otherwise devoid of life; Kashya had led the rogue scouts out on patrol.

"This—" The druid had stopped walking, and had turned to face the sorceress. A weather-beaten caravan and a low stone wall separated them from the High Priestess's clearing. "—is a waypoint."

Cordelia lifted a brow, pallid eyes searching her surroundings for a moment or two. "Where, again?"

He laughed. "Look down, Cordy."

"Oh!"

To say that she was surprised was a bit of an understatement. She'd seen the waypoint on her very first day in the encampment; only, then, she'd thought it was a prison to hold captives. It certainly _looked_ like one.

Several steel shafts of darkened steel had been placed upon the ground in a square of various designs, beneath which a pit had been dug. Through the gaps between the steel shafts, Cordelia thought she could see the muddy brown of rain-soaked soil.

"We're not going to go—" The sorceress shifted her gaze from the waypoint to the druid. "—_underneath_ that, are we?"

Saul laughed, shaking his head. "No." He motioned towards the grate. "_On_, not underneath."

Cordelia heaved a small sigh of relief—she was in no mood to wade in mud. "Alright. How does this work, then?"

The druid smiled slightly. "You haven't been looking closely, then." He knelt upon the grass beside the waypoint, fingers trailing gently along the edges of the blackened steel. "See here?"

She stooped low beside him, squinting slightly. "What am I supposed to be seeing?"

Saul exhaled exasperatedly as he reached up towards her, drawing her in for a closer look. "Places, Cordy. Names of places in which other waypoints have been built."

The sorceress blinked. Here, now, was something she'd failed to notice. Etched into the blackened steel of the waypoints, on all corners, were, indeed, the names of the lands of Entsteig. The Black Marsh, the forests of Nur'durain; The Inner and Outer Cloisters of the Tamoe Monastery. These names surrounded the square waypoint; two to each side of steel.

Only upon closer inspection did she notice the decorative arrows etched in between each name; each bore a specific direction. "These arrows—"

"—are for you to follow." Saul finished. "Our destination is the Stony Field, which lies to the West. Therefore, we step into the waypoint from the east, towards the west."

Cordelia sighed heavily, nodding as she stepped into the waypoint. "Alright. Easy enou—"

The scream was cut from her throat even as the world around her disappeared in a whirling blur of colours. No sound came to her ears, just as no light came to her eyes. For a single, fleeting moment, Cordelia thought she'd felt the odd sensation of flight; as though the winds had somehow gained the strength to lift her from the ground.

And then, in the blink of an eye, it was over.

She never saw the stony ground onto which she'd tumbled. Only when she'd felt the gentle prickling of grass against her hands and knees did she come to realise that she was no longer in transit. She groaned, staggering to her feet—this form of magical travel did not suit her insides well.

The soft, rustling sounds of rushing winds told her that her companion had arrived. Her vision was somewhat blurred from the tumble she'd taken, but she could see that the druid was smirking.

Scowling, Cordelia reached out with her staff to poke at the other. "You could've _warned_ me."

The druid seemed amused, though he came to her side almost instantly. "You could've _asked_ me before jumping in the way you did." He brushed several blades of grass from the top of her head. "How are you feeling?"

Cordelia winced, pushing his hand away. "Like I've just fallen seventy three yards. Can we please keep moving?" She paused; she could feel the bile rising in her throat. "—I may vomit if we don't."

He smiled wryly, and she could feel his concern—mingled with slight amusement. "Ceres is coming."

Her nausea seemed to fade as a new emotion overcame her head—curiousity. Cordelia frowned slightly as she straightened. "Who?"

The druid nodded; for some reason, his eyes were fixed upon a grouping of trees a little ways off. A moment later, he chuckled, as though slightly amused, before shifting his gaze towards the other. "Oh, I'm sorry. I must introduce you to her."

"Her?" Cordelia blinked several times, her brow creasing further—surely the druid was jesting? That part of the fields were empty, save for the two of them.

"She helped me find my way to the waypoint the other day. When you were deep in faint."

"I can't see her." The sorceress said. She turned her back to the druid, determined to search the fields for a glimpse of the apparent newcomer. "Nothing."

He laughed. "Cordy."

The sorceress exhaled heavily as she returned her gaze to her companion. "Wha—"

Ceres sat perched atop the druid's shoulder; she was, indeed, a beauty of a hawk. Soft, minute feathers of browns and greys grew along the bird's magnificent body, joining at her wings and tail in shades of golds and greens. Her eyes were jade, delicately flecked with various hues of gold and silver.

"—oh."

The hawk watched the sorceress rather haughtily from her perch. Cordelia frowned ever so slightly; she had never had one of the avian population stare her down in quite this manner before. Before the regal-looking bird, the young sorceress felt rather uncomfortable.

"This—" Saul chuckled, reaching up to stroke at the bird's feathers. "—is Ceres."

Cordelia found herself nodding obediently in greeting—towards the bird. Somehow, it felt rude to ignore her presence. After all, she _had_ came to their aid during the windstorm. "Pretty." She coughed.

The bird watched her sternly for a moment or two, before shifting her footing upon the druid's shoulder. She flapped her wings once; and twice, and then, quite without warning, took flight.

They watched the hawk for several long moments, each silent in their own thoughts. When at last the bird disappeared behind several clumps of trees, the sorceress turned to face her companion. "Where now, Saul?"

Saul wrinkled his nose. "Over there. It smells fouler there—demons."

"When in doubt, follow your nose?"

"Exactly."

They made their way westwards through the muddy fields—the rain had seeped deep into the soil, and on more than one occasion, Cordelia found herself slipping, narrowly avoiding what was sure to be nasty tumbles. From time to time, the airborne figure of Ceres would make itself visible between the clouds, only to disappear again moments later.

It was not much later when they came upon an outcropping of rocks and boulders in various shapes and sizes. The most prominent of these were but five in number; menhirs, arranged in a curious circle within the center of the outcropping. Cordelia found herself staring in slight disbelief—such architecture had never before graced her eyes. The arrangements of the menhirs clearly served no practical purpose.

And yet, it seemed to the sorceress that these menhirs radiated with a form of energy—magic, perhaps. She frowned. "These stones—" She shifted her gaze towards the druid for a moment. "—they feel powerful. And yet, I cannot be sure what powers they have harnessed through the ages. What is their purpose?"

Saul wrinkled his nose slightly. For some reason, the druid appeared uncomfortable—his eyes darted from corner to corner of their surroundings, as though he were looking for something. "These are the Cairn stones. The mages have studied them for many centuries now—they are a powerful source of magic; old magic. They are of the same brand of magic as the waypoints' magic. But while the magic of the waypoints have long been discovered, none have been able to decipher the runes carved into these stones, as no one has ever before initiated their magic."

Cordelia sighed quietly as she stepped up towards one of the menhirs. A single rune had been hewn into the grey of the stone—a symbol unlike those the sorceress had studied in her younger days. "That's interesting." She murmured under her breath. "That's very interesting."

She moved from stone to stone, tracing the symbols into her palm in turn; she had no trouble committing runes to memory, for she'd often memorised runes and symbols in her younger days. These runes, though obscure and unknown, were no different. For some reason, Saul did not share her enthusiasm—it was true that he allowed her several long moments to study the stones, but he seemed worried; his dark eyes studied their surroundings with an odd sort of ferocity, as though he knew of an imminent assault.

"Cordy—" It seemed an eternity before he chose to speak. "—we should keep moving."

Cordelia was not quite done with the Cairn stones—their magic intrigued her. It was with a great mass of reluctance that she returned to the druid's side. "Is something the matter? You seem so worried." She frowned.

He shook his head. "We shouldn't linger, is all. There are demons about. Especially here—" He paused, lifting a hand to scratch at his nose. "—Even if I couldn't smell the foul stench in the air, I'd feel the evil."

The sorceress crossed her arms, inhaling deeply as she gazed about the deserted fields. "There's no one here."

"You work with magic, Cordelia. The Cairn stones draw you to them with their magic—they block everything else out. I am not quite so magically inclined—the stones do not draw me so."

Cordelia sighed. Try as she might, she simply could not see sense in the druid's worry—how could she, when there were clearly no demons about them? And yet, she knew that she should trust him; the druid rarely worried. Only the rising of a likely formidable opponent would cause such caution in his actions.

What other choice did she have but to listen to him?

* * *

In his lifetime, there had been few instances in which Saul had allowed himself to feel worry. Nonchalance and ease had, for the most part, domineered over his other emotions—and he'd always chosen to look upon the troubles in life with hope, rather than despair. And yet, the general silence they'd encountered thus far within the Stony Fields troubled his mind.

It was true that they'd slain many of the hellspawn and corrupted rogues during their last visit—the corpses that still littered the ground were a testament to that. Even in greatly lessened numbers, however, the demons were unlikely to cease fire. The fallen and the carvers, blood-cousins of different dark elemental magics, were the cowards of the evils—they alone could hide and run from the forces of light. However, the other demons were not quite so spineless, nor were their desires for blood quite so easily sated.

The whole ordeal troubled the druid to a great extent. He was sure of his ability to hold his own in battle, but worried for Cordelia—if the need arose, _could_ she be depended upon to protect herself? She was obviously a formidable opponent; and yet, Saul found himself concerned for her. Would she be able to throw her self-doubt aside to rise to the occasion?

They travelled silently through the fields, across deserted pathways. From time to time, Ceres would swoop down upon them, circling their heads for several long minutes, before disappearing once more into the cloudy skies. Saul was almost sure that the hawk could feel his unease; the frenquency of her visits decreased as they approached their destination. It was not long before they found themselves cast within the shadows of the great grey walls of Nerheid.

The inhabitants of Entsteig knew the giant boulder as but one name: Nerheid. Ten times the length of the greatest war-ships, and twenty seven times the height of the most elevated oaks, Nerheid served only one purpose—to separate the Stony Fields from the shadowy forests of Nur'durain; the Dark Wood.

Saul wrinkled his nose slightly as they came towards the cavernous entrance into the underground passage through Nerheid's belly—the scent of hellspawn lingered even within the mouth of the tunnels. "We're here." He said.

Cordelia's eyes were narrowed in distaste—perhaps it was the prospect of walking within the darkened cavern, and perhaps it was the stench of death all around them. She nodded curtly towards him, before stepping right up towards the mouth of the cave. "And these tunnels will lead us to Nur'durain? To the Dark Woods?"

"Yes."

She sighed, nodding once. Saul found himself crooking a tiny smile—somehow, the sorceress did not strike him as one to enjoy a journey through a darkened, dampened tunnel. In the face of her apparent loathing of the tunnels, however, the druid found himself attempting optimism, if only for her sake.

"It won't be that bad. At least you won't be in there alone." He patted her gently on the shoulder; and she turned her head slightly towards him, only just managing a small smile.

There was a moment of silence; a soft caw echoed in the distance, and the sudden rumbling of thunder rocked the grounds as lightning streaks in golds and silvers began to dance through the skies. Saul frowned, concerned—he'd caught a glimpse of his companion's pallid face.

Her eyes were widened—shock and fear were mirrored within their blue chasms. "Saul—" The word escaped her lips in a softened whisper. "—you were right."

Saul thinned his lips—all too soon, he realised that which his companion spoke of. Overhead, Ceres released a shrill, echoing cry, a warning to the man she had come to respect as one of Nature's own. The druid inhaled sharply, allowing himself only mere seconds to calm his suddenly nervous heart. In his newfound fear, Saul found that he could only just manage a tiny, re-assuring smile—this, he offered to Cordelia.

"Stay close to me." He whispered. The sorceress nodded stiffly, and, for a fleeting moment, her eyes met his.

Saul echoed her nod, before shifting his footing—in a single, sweeping movement, he whipped around, his grip of his staff tightening as yet another flash of lightning barbed across the skies.

The army that marched against them looked to be smaller than most—perhaps fifty strong in size. Within its ranks were various forms of undead; skeletal archers and undead corpses—zombies. The corrupted rogues marched within the center of this army; and, flanking the edges of the ranks, the crimson fallen and cerulean carvers brandished their crudely-made weapons.

They moved in unison; shrieked with unison, a single word uttered in the foulest languages of hell: _Rakanishu_.

Saul smirked vaguely to himself—it was clear to him that the army had been united in the name of the hell-spawned guardian of the Stony Fields; of the Cairn Stones. The single, sapphire-skinned carver marched at the head of the army, its blackened teeth bared in a ferocious snarl. Rakanishu.

"Are you scared, Cordelia?"

She shook her head firmly.

"Good."

And together, they watched as the hellspawn drew closer; together, they held their weapons at ready. Together, they charged into the fray of glinting blades and serrated daggers—together, they would fight.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Yay! Another chapter! I'm sorry it took so long, you guys, but I've been really busy lately. Also, this chapter might have to be revised, so don't kick me too hard for any mistakes in here!

Also! Thanks go out to **Ophelion** for the review.

Thanks also for the help with the places of Diablo II—I've found tons of useful information in the site links that you sent me! And yes, there will be lots of blood in the next chapter. Battle scenes!

Signing off for now!


	6. Chapter 5: Fight and Flight

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**Chapter 5: Fight and Flight**

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_Are we going to die?_

She wove through the horde of demons, her heart thumping heavily against her chest as she threw fireball after fireball in the direction of her attackers. With one hand, she swung her staff around—this served to keep the crimson and cerulean demons; the fallen and the carvers, away. Her other hand, she held steady, straight; it was the channel of her mana. She spoke the words breathlessly, words of magic, and words of fire, as the balls of flame erupted from the the tips of her slender fingers.

_We are greatly outnumbered… What if we cannot defeat them?_

With gritted teeth, the sorceress shook her doubts aside—now was not a time for fear. If she did not act fast, both her, and her companion would perish. She screamed—releasing her fear, her anger, and her frustration; and every emotion that had been building deep within her chest dissipated away into but one thing: reckless courage. The orb of fire within her palm was ready—with a heavy grunt, and with all the strength she could find it in herself to muster, she launched it into the heart of a group of fallen; and several fell, burnt, charred, and dead, onto the muddy ground.

She allowed a small, grim smile to grace her features, however short lived it was destined to be. Every demon she felled was quickly replaced by another, and another, and another; their attacks varied and unpredictable. It was all the sorceress could do to remain standing, to fight back against the army that seemed intent upon stamping the life from her. Her breath came in short, quick rasps as she fought to stay conscious—she was at the very bottom of her supply of magical energy.

The demons could sense her fear, her weakness. Triumphant, they bared their teeth, raising their clubs and swords; the sorceress would soon be finished. They pressed closer in on her, assaulting every bit of her they could reach.

Cordelia flung her staff limply about, wincing even as it came into contact with several short carver heads with sickening crunches—it all sounded too gory for her stomach to handle. A wave of nausea washed over her head as she threw a fire bolt at one of the corrupted rogues before her. With a shrill death-cry, the rogue fell to the ground, eyes widened even in death. Even in the heat of the battle, the sorceress noted faintly that they were no longer crimson—they were, instead, a clear, serene blue. The rogue was at peace, now.

Her moment of solemn contemplation had cost her—greatly. She did not quite understand the physics of the arrow that pierced her abdomen, but when it did, she shrieked—she had never felt such pain before. Warm blood flowed from her gaping wound in a river of red, staining the sorceress's clothes and armour. Twas the arrow of a corrupted rogue.

The rogue released a cry of elation; emboldened, she notched another arrow, aiming, this time, towards the sorceress's heart.

Cordelia choked several sobs back; the pain was almost unbearable. And yet, here was the rogue, ready to end her misery; ready to end her pain, and, her _life_.

With a pang, the sorceress realised: She was not quite ready to die.

It was in her final, most desperate moment, that she'd thrown her hands into the air, and screamed—"_Caer dyoniatche!_"

The world exploded in showers and sparks of flames. The sorceress thought she could hear the faint cries of the corrupted rogues; and the shrieks of the fallen, and of the carvers—feel the charred, lifeless corpses of the hellspawn collapse all around her.

And then, darkness overcame light; she saw, and felt no more.

* * *

He felt choked; breathless, almost as if the air were not enough to keep his heart beating. The hellspawned horde stood on every plane visible to him, brandishing weapons and baring teeth—they were united.

For a moment or two, the druid considered the irony of the situation—that the demons were united was a bizarre enough situation. That they were united against _him, _however—the thought was quite enough to bring a cringe into his face.

Saul gritted his teeth, grunting heavily as he slammed the headpiece of his staff into the abdomen of a skeletal archer; it crumbled to dust at his feet even as the foot of his staff collided with the skull of a zombie. Half a second later, it collapsed onto the ground to join its fallen brother.

He could hear Ceres's shrill cries from within the horde of demons, and could only suppose that the brave bird was deep in battle. The sounds of Cordelia's exploding fireballs came quite often to his ears—they were comforting, for they were proof that his companion stood and fought, still.

_This is going to be a long battle._

He took but a moment to straighten; inhaling sharply, he held his staff at ready, and launched himself towards a group of zombies. It was true that the zombies were slow, weaker than their undead cousins—the skeletal archers. And yet, within the sharpened lengths of their fingernails rested all sorts of diseases and poisons. Untreated, these poisons were most likely fatal.

Biting down upon his lower lip, the druid ducked the blows of their scaly, putrid arms. With his staff, he knocked several of his opponents back—there were too many of them to handle at close range combat. He swore heavily, drawing his dagger from his boot-sheath—several flashes of silver followed, in which several of the undead zombies fell dead at his feet. Several short seconds passed in which the druid kicked the corpses aside; whispering apologies under his breath. There would be no reprieve for those who stumbled in battle—only death.

He swore heavily.

The zombies had made their way towards him once more. Saul winced—without really thinking, he raised his staff, and took aim. "_Aladon myare!"_

The zombies exploded in a myriad of crystalline colours, even as the twister moved from target to target. Satisfied, the druid took but a moment to breathe—and then, almost as if he'd meant to do it all along, lifted his staff and summoned yet another barrage of twisters.

Saul watched with a grim sort of satisfaction as more of the hellspawn fell. It was not until half a second later that he'd realised; he'd not heard the sounds of the explosion of fireballs for over five minutes.

He froze.

_Cordelia!_

He could feel a feral sort of panic building up deep within his chest; what if? What if the sorceress had been overtaken by darkness? Could it be that she'd—

He snarled.

_No! He would not think of it!_

The hordes of hellspawn were somewhat dissipating; many had chosen to flee into the wilderness of the Stony Fields. Saul supposed that they could be taken care of later—he had other things on his mind. Out of the corner of his eye, the druid thought he'd saw Rakanishu flanked within several of the larger carvers. He growled.

_Coward!_

He did not think; all thoughts, even those of the sorceress, seemed flushed from within his head as he charged towards the sapphire-skinned carver. He wanted to hurt the little demon, to kill it, to render it completely dead even within the fiery halls of hell.

The sapphire-skinned one bared its teeth, lifting its barbed club as several streaks of lightning wove through the ground towards the druid; it could sense the druid's steely determination. It would be a fight to the finish. Its minions scarpered—they, too, could feel the wrath of the human. Unlike their master, they were in no mood to do battle with death.

The druid struck first; it was with a heavy cry of rage—a battle cry, that he'd jumped at the carver. His mother's blood; his _barbarian_ blood, coursed thick within his veins. The sapphire-skinned one snarled, jumping aside; it was fast, as it was short. It sneered; and, with superhuman strength for one of its size, rammed its club into the druid's chest.

Saul grunted at the force, though he showed no weakness; he lashed out at the carver with his staff. The hard wood hit the carver, the force knocking it back several feet. It growled, enraged; thousands of lightning wires barbed through the ground.

It was all that the druid could do to avoid them.

The sapphire-skinned carver bared its teeth once more—precisely as the druid took aim with his staff. With a loud, angry shriek, the carver backed away; its sight had been frozen away. It was panicked, now.

Saul gritted his teeth, lifting his staff once more. The carver was now running back and forth, issuing barbs of lightning bolts at random. It was time to finish the fight.

"_Aladon myare."_

The twisters hit the weakened carver one after the other; and for several long moments, the druid watched the chilly windstorms at work. The magic of the elements, mingled with the lightning magic of the devil created an odd sort of supernova; sparks of every imaginable shade burst from the ground.

And then, the twisted form of the carver shattered into nothingness; Rakanishu was dead.

He stood in the deafening silence for several long moments. The world seemed devoid of life, save for himself—he could feel nothing but the pounding of his heart against his chest. He clenched, and unclenched his fists.

Only when Ceres landed heavily upon his head, was he brought back to consciousness. The bird released a shrill, rather contemptuous cry; and then pecked him, hard.

_Cordelia._

Saul gasped; his body seemed to return to life as the air coursed through his veins. He jumped, whipping around to scour the battlefield for signs of his companion.

_She's not here._

He could almost feel his heart stop as his throat became stuck; could it be that she lay upon the ground? Could it be that she was cold, hurt—perhaps, dying?

Perhaps dead?

Saul shook his head; all sanity, all prospect seemed washed from him as he ran from bloody pile to bloody pile. He kicked at the corpses, searching for just a glimmer of her crimson hair—just a glimmer of hope for her survival. Where could she be? She was not among the dead—nor was she anywhere to be seen.

_Concentrate, you fool._

"What is there to concentrate upon?!" His voice was hoarse, even as he flailed an arm out at the hawk; with a soft cry of disgust, the bird flew from his head, coming to land, instead, upon a large boulder beside the cavernous entrance into Nerheid's belly.

_If she were dead, there would be a body. Incidentally, if you ever attempt to hit me again, I will not hesitate to abandon you._

Saul growled, pacing heavily towards the bird—and she stared imperiously at him. "I know that." And then, almost grudgingly, "—Sorry."

_They have taken her._

"Who?! Where?" The druid pressed his nose to the bird; he was mildly aware of the madness in his eyes—they were reflected deep within the bird's jade orbs.

_Into Nerheid. She is unconscious, but alive still._

He was beginning to breathe once more; he could feel the air rushing into his lungs. Gratefully, he inhaled, then exhaled, before lowering his face onto the cold, hard stone. He was trembling. "Ceres—I must follow."

_Well, of course._

The stone felt strangely comfortable beneath his skin; the relative cold calmed his mind and relieved his fears. She lived, still. There was time yet to rescue her.

_I'd heal myself first, if I were you._

Saul shifted his gaze slightly. Ceres continued to stare at him, though not unkindly. She hopped beside his head, nipping him somewhat affectionately on the ear. In the presence of the hawk, the druid found himself relaxing slightly; he was not alone. Nature resided, still, within his veins.

He nodded slightly—and winced. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, he could fully feel the extent of his injuries. Several wide gashes lined his arms, and his back ached—he vaguely recalled taking a blow to the back. The soles of his feet burned; quite a few of Rakanishu's lightning waves had found their target.

_Hurry up._

The druid chose to ignore the bird; with impeccable speed, he tugged two phials of crimson potion from his belt, pouring them into his throat with gusto.

_I am going to fly ahead to Nur'durain. I shall meet you on the other side._

Saul nodded. "Be careful." He mumbled.

Ceres drew a single talon carefully upon the boulder on which she stood, before taking flight—higher, higher, to the very summit of Nerheid. The druid watched her for a moment; only a moment. His entire body burned—ached with injuries. The potions had aided him, somewhat—there would be no time for proper treatment within the encampment.

He narrowed his eyes, peering silently into the darkness of the caves. The stench that hit his nose brought a wave of nausea to his head, though he disregarded it—he could not afford delay.

Without so much as a backward glance, the druid plunged through the cavernous threshold, and was instantly swallowed by darkness.

* * *

**Author's Note:** This is probably the shortest chapter I've ever written for this fic! It just seemed like a fitting end for this chapter, anyhow. Anybody feeling sorry for poor Saul just yet?

Alright, I've got some explaining to do, it seems. Some of you are probably under the impression that Saul is in love with Cordelia. I understand, really. The truth behind it all is quite simple. Saul is actually just infatuated with Cordelia—right now, he's curious as to why she interests him so much. At the present moment, the most that can be said for their relationship is that it's a platonic, brotherly-sisterly one. They aren't in love.

Yet.

Anyhow! Thanks go out to:

**  
Ophelion:** Here's your gore! I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter—I got a right headache just writing it. I confess, I suck at battle scenes. Wish I had your talent with writing fight scenes.

**Phreno:** Oh my goodness, I'm so glad you're still alive! I was wondering where you'd gotten to! Thanks for the review, I say, and thanks for updating your tale! I was missing Raven and Aries bunches! And, I hope you enjoyed the angst in this chapter!

**Christopher:** Hehe… I'm glad you find my tormenting of Kashya amusing, to say the least. Thanks for reading my story, hon. Glad you enjoyed it!

Cheers, you guys. And please, please, please, if there are any of you out there reading my fic' without reviewing—

--PLEASE drop me a line! I need tons of critique, whether good or bad. Please and thank you!

Signing off for now!


	7. Chapter 6: The Path to Tristram

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**Chapter 6: The Path to Tristram**

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_The tunnels were dark and damp, utterly devoid of heavenly light. Several corners within the whispering chasms were flooded—the rain had done what light could not; it had found its way into Nerheid's belly. The chilly air felt evil; tainted with the stench of darkness, death, and blood. Stalagmites and stalactites protruded from in dangerously sharp angles from above and below. The darkness enshrouded the caves, as a starless-night sky would the lands._

_He was only vaguely aware of the repetitive drip, drip, dripping of water onto the moistened ground—there were other things on his mind._

_Cordelia nowhere to be found. He'd slewn those in his path; the undead, the demons, the corrupted mages—yet, the carvers that he so desperately sought remained hidden. Where could they be?_

_Every inch of his body ached in protest of his pilgrimage. Waves and waves of nausea plagued his swimming head, pleading mercy. It was all that the druid could do to place one foot after the other; to cast spell after spell, to slay demon after demon. He would not allow failure—Cordelia needed him._

_He'd sworn to endure the endless darkness to save her—and endure the darkness, he would._

* * *

"Is he sleeping?"

"Yes. With his face buried within books—I doubt he meant to rest, though."

He forced his eyes open, and, almost immediately winced in discomfort; the sun had chosen a most unfortunate day to shine—the shafts of sunlight shone even through the shade of his sleeping tent. The open tome upon which he'd lain his cheek was a source of great discomfort—the pages were crisp; dusty. The ground felt unusually hard beneath him, and his arms were stiff. And yet he lay still; he was in no mood to engage in conversation.

"He's been back two days. Has he spoken to anyone besides Akara?"

"No, Captain. I—I'm beginning to worry for him. He tries to hide them, but I can see his tears."

"The issue will resolve itself in due time. Do not worry, Liene."

It became increasingly difficult to remain still—an itch had presented itself within his jumbled mass of once-handsome locks. He wished the two women would go away. Why were they concerned for him? Where was the concern for Cordelia? It was her life that hung in the balance—not his.

"The Inifuss Scroll—it has something to do with the sorceress's disappearance?"

"Yes. Akara has translated it for him, but it speaks in odd circles. There is no way of knowing what useful information lies within it."

He narrowed his eyes in protest—there had to be a reasoning beneath the riddles of the scroll. The words within it would lead him to Cordelia—he was sure of it.

"We can only hope the mystery is solved soon—before he, too, falls from the grasp of life."

The druid flinched in slight distaste. More than ever, now, he wished that the two women would disappear. There was work to do—the mysteries within the scroll needed to be solved, and solved soon. Before Cordelia ran out of time.

The silence that filled his ears was startling for a minute—for a moment or two, he'd wondered if the women had taken their conversation elsewhere. He allowed himself several heavier breaths, before slowly, and discreetly lifting his head. He peered about.

_They are gone._

With a soft rustling of feathers, Ceres landed upon his bunk. She gazed reproachfully at him for several long seconds.

_You look terrible._

He shook his head quietly, and shifted slightly. His back ached—he'd fallen asleep the night before with his upper body strewn over the edge of his bunk bed, which he'd used as a makeshift table. "I'm fine."

She narrowed her eyes slightly, before rustling her tail feathers importantly.

_If you say so. Have you broken the riddle within the Inifuss Scroll yet?_

"Not yet." He muttered, straightening. "Shut the entrance flaps, Ceres. I need to stretch."

The hawk beat her wings impatiently; half a second later, she took flight towards the entrance of the tent. In two easy pecks, she'd severed the cords holding the flaps up. Then, in the relative dark, she returned to the side of the druid. He stretched gratefully, nodding once in thanks.

_What does the Inifuss scroll say again?_

"Read it yourself."

The Inifuss scroll lay open upon his bed, beside a stack of heavy-lidded tomes. Atop it lay a crisp sheet of parchment; the translations of the original runes upon the scroll written neatly within it. Ceres hopped towards it, eyeing it dubiously for a moment or two.

_When have I ever given you the impression that I could read? I am but a bird._

The druid blinked once—in mild surprise, he looked from the scroll, to the bird. "Oh." He said. "I'm sorry."

--

"_Er bendicht tres er amonde cre;_

_Er summaneya tres er duien arnya._

_Vir tae ammon; cuira lea tae annurach;_

_Sillen vou er aldunya tres meinyara._

_--_

_Er bendocht udun, tae eayranh ahcue;_

_Ir caer, dano duis ir ven,_

_Er aladon sillena van tae druich baston,_

_Er dundae, ai nefrah tae enoch;_

_Ir amonde n'hella caiore hier andun."_

_--_

Ceres pecked him hard upon his hand.

_Not in the M'arroc tongue. Akara translated it, didn't she?_

Saul rubbed at the mark upon his hand; he glared at the bird.

--

"The spirits of the earth arise;

The magic of the skies descend.

Awaken thy souls; let soar thy hearts;

Bring forth the wisdom of old.

--

The spirit strong, thy greatest ally;

And fire, both light and dark,

The air brings hither thy gentle breath,

The water, it cleanses thy soul;

And earth binds together these four."

--

He'd recited the riddle several hundred times; each time, hoping, but failing to gather an answer for its contents. Even Akara was at a loss—she could not break the mystery of the riddle. The meaning remained as obscure as ever.

Ceres rustled her tail feathers impatiently; she hopped upon an ebon-bound volume, clicking her beak. She stared hard at the title, before decidedly beginning to peck at the cover from below—it flew open with a heavy thud.

"Why are you doing that? You can't read." Saul frowned; he was scribbling feverishly into an empty sheet of paper.

The hawk eyed him reproachfully.

_I asked where you got the impression that I could read. I never said I couldn't._

The druid lifted his head—his eyes were narrowed as he looked the hawk up and down. A bird was making fun of him.

Wonderful.

* * *

_The shaman was strong—it was no mere demon. It hurled fireball after fireball at the druid, who jumped to and fro in a futile attempt to avoid them. It laughed gleefully at the druid's actions—such weakness in one so powerful. With a shrill shriek of joy, it took aim once more; and the fireball flew from the grasps of its cerulean claws._

_The druid released a grunt of exhaustion as he ran, his staff held rigidly within his right hand. Several of the carver minions jumped at him, weapons held ready. He gritted his teeth—the sickening crunch of breaking skulls filled his ears as he bolted past them. The shaman laughed once more, its shrill curses ringing heavily through the caves._

_Beads of sweat rolled from his face, where ebon soot and crimson blood mingled in various designs. He was exhausted—it showed in his sluggish reflexes. The shaman had sensed weakness the second it'd set eyes upon the druid—this was an opponent awaiting death._

_Nonetheless, the druid refused to flee—he could not, would not._

_He leapt behind a stone, landing on his knees. A carver-corpse lay on the ground beside him—its eyes were widened in a mad, almost frightening stare. Blood seeped from its broken neck onto the ground, staining the gravel and rock. The druid exhaled softly—the shaman was taunting him. He could feel its breath of fire upon the hard stone._

_Silently, he reached towards the corpse—its buckler lay upon the ground beside its severed arm._

_The druid jumped to his feet, the buckler held over his face and chest. With an almost feral cry of rage, he darted at the shaman, his staff raised. The buckler, he used against the fireballs; by sheer chance, it withstood the heat of the licking flames._

_The shaman stepped back, shocked. It lifted its barbed club just as the druid lashed at him with his staff._

_Wood met wood in a series of aggressive and defensive stances. They locked eyes—the druid's greys boring hatefully into the demon's golds. It broke the stare first, screaming abuses in the languages of hell. The druid hissed, jumping aside as yet another blast of fire came towards him._

_He darted about the next few fireballs; behind the shaman. It bared its teeth, crying shrilly as it lifted its barbed club to strike at its enemy. The druid gritted his teeth—even as the cerulean one raised its clawed hands, he jumped forward, grunting in pain as the club hit him squarely on the chest. And yet, he did not stagger backwards—in one swift movement, he drew his blade from his boot, and took aim._

_The cerulean shaman wailed piteously as the dagger found its sheath within its heart. Ebon blood ebbed onto the ground—it stared into the druid's dirt-stained face, and growled a last growl._

_And then, it collapsed. It was dead._

* * *

"—could be anywhere, Liene, we can't go barelling into the wilderness just like that!"

"But if we could just solve this mystery, and find the sorceress—"

"No!"

Saul groaned—how long had it been since he'd fallen asleep once more? It was true that he was exhausted to the point of collapsing—but he could not rest. It would not be fair to Cordelia; she needed him.

He lifted his head, peering about the empty tent. Ceres was nowhere to be seen—she'd left the flaps of the tent shut.

Intelligent bird.

"So what? Are we going to leave him to his own devices?"

"I'm not saying that—and I'm not saying that we should run around screaming for the sorceress. We need more information. We cannot put ourselves at risk, Liene. There are few enough of us as it is."

"He could die!"

The druid swore under his breath—night had fallen. The conversation going on outside his tent did not bother him much. He had more pressing matters on his mind.

Grumbling slightly at himself, he lit a candle. And then, pressing his hands against his ears, he began to read once more—he would not allow the rogues to intrude upon his research.

Nor would he allow himself rest.

* * *

_He could not breathe—surely, his lungs would collapse under the added stress of his sprint. His arms flailed helplessly from side to side, and his eyes—his eyes were focused upon but one thing._

_Cordelia lay in the midst of seven muscular carvers—they held her up from below. She stirred feebly as they ran, one arm dangling limply over the edge of a clawed hand._

_The druid noted, with a tinge of fear, that she was deathly pale._

_It happened in a flash of ebon orbs—one second, the carvers were there. The next, they were gone—gone in a myriad of sparkling explosions in shades of black and grey. The druid cried out in shock—he could not believe his eyes._

_If he hadn't known any better, he would've thought that they'd disappeared into the cold, stony wall._

_Instead, as he'd slammed himself heavily into the rock, he'd noticed but one tiny detail—carved delicately into the greyish backdrop._

_A tree—a giant tree with wide-spread, but bare branches._

_Great roots the size of barrels protruding the ground at its feet._

_The Majestic tree of Inifuss; one that made its home deep within Nur'durain. And beneath the tree, barely visible save to those of careful gaze—_

_—an odd arrangement of menhirs; five in number, and great in magical energy._

* * *

"The Cairn Stones!"

Saul bolted upright, his eyes widening. The five stones—the five-point star. Gritting his teeth, he rummaged hastily through the bits of parchment and scrolls upon his bunk; and came up with the Inifuss Scroll, along with its translation.

"Spirit—fire—air—water—" He muttered feverishly. "—and earth."

All at once, the answer to the puzzle became clear to him. The riddle within the Inifuss Scroll was solved; broken.

"The spirit—our life-force. A strong spirit is always—" Saul paused, exhaling heavily as he sketched the star into a sheet of parchment. "—at the very top."

He marked the tip of the star with a large 'I'.

"Fire—fire burns beneath the earth—beneath the seas." He paused; he could feel his breath beginning to quicken. "Air lies above the earth—and above the seas."

His fingers were trembling as he marked the star with 'II' and 'III'—onto the bottom right point, and the top left point.

"The earth rests between fire, and water—" The druid bit down hard upon his lower lip as he wrote. "And water lies above both fire and earth."

Saul jumped to his feet, all exhaustion forgotten as he emerged from his tent, the little piece of parchment crumpled within his hand. His staff lay at Charsi's forge—his cousin had taken it upon herself to repair it. In a matter of mere seconds, he'd strapped all his armour onto his body. He caught his staff in his hands, and bolted towards the waypoint.

He was only mildly aware of the footsteps that followed in his wake—let them come, whoever they were. He no longer cared.

All that mattered now was whether Cordelia breathed still.

His feet thundered heavily across the grassy fields—it was with sheer luck and determination, that he'd avoided the stones and pebbles in his way. Several demons crossed his path, though they were easily shot down by those on his tail. He did not stop; did not consider fatigue, until he'd reached the familiar outcropping of boulders.

The Cairn Stones stood proudly before him, majestic in height and powerful in magic.

He ran from stone to stone, touching the tip of his staff onto the engraved symbols in turn—they began to glow. The excitement began to build from within him; his heart pounded within his chest, and adrenaline rushed from the tips of his fingers to the soles of his feet. Even as his persuer caught up with him—Liene, a loud rumbling echoed through the skies. Bright white sparks of ivory lightning sparked from stone to stone, crackling with energy.

Saul clasped a hand over his eyes—and then inhaled.

A shimmering, burgundy portal had opened within the very center of the Cairn Stones—wisps of screams and demons' taunts echoed from beyond its chasms.

The druid took but a second to breathe—then dove headfirst into the crimson mists.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Its definitely best to write all that I can write before I succomb to writer's block again. Honestly.

Anyhow, I hope ya'll enjoyed this chapter. Remember to drop me a review! I love having your thoughts on my story—critique and ideas are very welcome.

Many thanks to **Ophelion** for the review!


	8. Chapter 7: Tainted Heart & Tainted Dart

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**Chapter 7: Tainted Heart and Tainted Dart**

* * *

Once upon a time, the town of Tristram had stood tall and proud. It had been a landmark; a place of merriment, and of trade. It had been well protected—naught could penetrate its great stone walls. Once upon a time, Tristram had been _pure_.

Clearly, it was no longer the case.

The sorceress lay on her chest upon the cold, hard soil, her cheek pressed deep within the mud. Her orange-red hair, caked with blood and grime fell over her broken form in a mass of tangles—her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, as though she were caught within a nightmare. From time to time, she would shiver; her body racked with moans and gurgles—an almost piteous thing.

They'd chained her to the ground—several lengths of rough-hewn silver loops were attached to shackles about both her slender wrists, her ankles—and her neck.

_She could not move. _

Consciousness did not grip her for longer than several short seconds at a time. The pain within her abdomen harbored upon the border of excruciating torment—it tore at her broken insides, awakening hoarse screams from the depths of her throat.

_Death would have been kinder. _

She was only faintly aware of the human presence above her; she'd heard whispers of his weak tones when they'd first brought her in. Several times, as she'd awakened to the sting of pain, she'd thought she could see him watching her from between the bars of his wooden prison—the trespassers of Tristram had suspended him within a wooden cage.

Surely, he was a mage of magnificent magic? The sorceress could not summon enough energy to remain conscious, nor was she in the right state of mind to contemplate such matters; it could only be surmissed, from whatever time she had before darkness claimed her, that the other prisoner held magic within his veins. She could feel the fading warmth of his aura.

As she could feel the fading warmth of her life-force.

* * *

Tristram was no more.

Within its once-glorious walls rested the remnants of the past—crumbled houses, crimson wildfires, ruined homes; and the bodies. The wide-eyed bodies lay strewn in several bloody heaps—men, women, and children, broken and burnt, the traces of their last screams etched over their dulled irises.

A faint wave of nausea washed over the druid as he sidestepped a bovine carcass—the sight was none too pleasant. The stench of blood, death, and evil hung thick in the humidity.

"Oh, dear Gods—"

Liene had entered the portal—she stood by the druid, her lissom frame stiff with shock. Her face had drained of all colour.

"Can you hear _them?_" The druid whispered; he could hear the vague screams of hellspawn ringing within the air.

The rogue nodded slightly—her grip of her bow tightened just a touch as she drew an arrow from her quiver. "Yes."

Saul narrowed his eyes, his brow creased in a contemplative frown. Somehow, it didn't seem wise to jump into the center square—surely, hellspawned-horrors of all sorts resided within the secure area?

"We have to be discreet." He muttered quietly. Liene nodded once, to show that she was listening.

"Clean out the edges of the town first—" Here, he paused—he could hear heavy footsteps. With a faint grimace, he drew Liene closer. "—stay behind me. Kill everything that attacks from far—then kill everything that uses magic. Do not approach them for close-quarter combat."

Liene eyed him cooly for a moment or two. He had hit a nerve. "I am quite able to fight on my own accord. I'm not a a sapling warrior two-steps far in training." She tossed her deep auburn hair over her shoulder.

"Quiet." He hissed, reaching out with an arm to keep her back. "Someone is coming."

She regarded him with a silent sort of chill, before consenting to step back.

They made their way silently along the edge of the town; him, before her, with his staff in one hand, and his dagger in the other. She moved along behind him, holding her bow at ready, jade-coloured eyes wary and vigilant.

"Be ready."

It happened in a rain of bone-shafted arrows; shrieks of nightmares pierced the air as the battle of Tristram began.

The first to fall were the skeletal archers—one by one, they crumbled onto the ground in heaps of shattered bones. The rogue was, indeed, deft and adept with the bow, and her aim, true. Her bronze-tipped arrows sped through the air, severing skeletal necks and limbs.

Saul wove through the host of demons, spinning his blade deftly about demon-necks as he summoned twister after twister. From time to time, he would whisper words in the ancient M'arroc tongue—calling upon the elements; and lo, bristles of flame would erupt from the ground, engulfing his enemies in shades of crimson and gold.

They fought their way through the edge of town—it was not long before the cerulean skinned carvers that made fort within Tristram; the demons, lay dead upon the ground in ravaged heaps.

And then _he_ came.

The undead cadaver was, no doubt, wrought of the dark arts—he stood at six feet in height, large, bulky arms hanging from the sides of his broad, broad shoulders. Set over his heavily-muscled chest were pieces of bronzed platemail, held together with several layers of thick, oiled leather.

His eyes were hollowed out.

Saul gripped his staff firmly in his hands—he almost felt faint with weariness. And yet, the opponent that stood before him—albeit blind, would surely be one of great strength.

Grimly, the druid took his stance—and then, without a second's hesitation, he charged.

* * *

The screams were swimming within the darkened catacombs of her mind; they taunted her, and haunted her—refusing to allow her sanctuary within the walls of obliviousness. Shrieks of pain—cries of torment echoed all about her, reminding her all too well of her own predicament.

Against her own will, Cordelia began to stir. Vestiges of reality began seeping into focus; she moaned softly. Her entire body ached—as if seven thousand poisoned blades had pierced her flesh. She scrabbled feebly at the dirt beneath her; in mere seconds, her fingernails were caked with soot and mud.

She almost cried out in pain as a body stumbled by—it had kicked her in the side of her head. Her temple throbbed heavily as she tasted blood in her mouth.

Or, _more_ blood, as it were.

Her eyes began to mist even as the colours swirled all around her—crimson-oranges and amber. Despite the humidity—despite the numerous open-fires surrounding her, naught but chilly winds touched the sorceress's soul. She shivered—down to the very tips of her soot-stained fingers.

"_Tia-aldyn Ciryx—_"

The shrieks rang still within the air when a pair of hands—warm and gentle hands, with care and concern, cradled the sides of her head. For a moment or two, Cordelia held her breath; she could not quite understand the logic of this newcomer. Could it be that there was hope, after all?

Even as the warmth of the hands left the sides of her face, a pair of narrowed, jade-coloured eyes came into focus, causing the sorceress to inhale sharply in mingled shock and surprise.

Liene.

The sorceress shuddered slightly as the rogue lieutenant took a heavy axe to her shackles—the chains broke away from the ground with heavy clinks. She winced slightly as she was pulled swiftly to her feet; her vision was coming in and out of focus—the metal clasps hung, still, from around her neck, wrists, and ankles. They were extraordinarily heavy—and they weighed her down. And then, her staff was handed to her—which she gratefully held onto, for balance. The all-too-familiar ringing of metal against metal graced her ears—and she winced.

"Hurry, Tia-aldyn. We must leave this place at once—" The lieutenant began, her voice rigid with anxiety. She glanced about as she tugged a be-ribboned scroll from her belt-pouch. "—I will open a portal for you. You must go through it, and—"

"There is someone up there—" Cordelia whispered, her voice but a low breath. "—I think—"

"—Deckard Cain." Liene finished. "This is most fortunate. Tia-aldyn, open the gateway into our encampment. I must free him—" She passed the scroll to the sorceress, and drew her dagger. The cage would have to come down.

Cordelia winced slightly—her hands were shaking. And yet, the prospect of escape seemed tonic to her broken body; she heaved a determined sigh. Her fingers tore at the cobalt-and-gold seal of the scroll as her mouth whispered words of transportation, invoking the magic. The seal fell apart—and the crisp scroll fell to the ground. Blue fumes, the colours of the seal, rose from the scroll—it burst into flames.

The cobalt-tinged portal of darkest ebon emerged from the remains of the scroll even as the cage of Deckard Cain came crashing down onto the ground.

"Come, Tia-aldyn! Do not linger—"

Cordelia took several deep breaths. Her head was swimming—nausea and breathlessness, combined, caused quite the amount of bile in her throat. She was spent—she crumpled onto her knees as the lieutenant dragged the unconscious Cain through the portal.

Several long seconds passed in which the portal flickered lifelessly. The sorceress found herself gagging several times; then swallowed nervously. She wished Liene would have the common sense to return for her—she could not quite move her legs.

A great, rumbling roar brought her back to her morbid reality.

She turned—and the sound came to her throat in a series of frightened shrieks.

The beast towered over the numerous carvers surrounding it. Its razor-sharp claws matched its great, blood-stained fangs to the last jagged-edge. Dirt-caked, ivory fur ran along its head, face, arms, torso, and back, ending in a shaggy, voluminous tail of darker grey. It stood upon its oddly extended hind-legs.

Cordelia could only watched, entranced, as the beast clawed several demons in half with a mere swipe of its great paw. It frightened her—and yet, it seemed as if it meant her no harm. She could not understand it at all.

She did not have the strength to attempt understanding it.

The demons had fallen—they lay in bloody heaps upon the ground. From beneath the muzzle of the beast came a low, growling sound—and then, it turned towards the sorceress, and began to make towards her. Cordelia gasped—and made a feeble attempt at getting away, dragging her broken chains along the soil; but to no avail. Her limbs were simply too spent—her energy, completely exhausted.

The creature flicked its tail mildly—a gesture seemingly harmless. Its pointed ears twitched for a moment—and then it growled.

It happened in a flash of whirring silver—the serrated blade embedded itself within the shoulder of the beast; it growled, tearing the blade from its flesh. In one swift movement, it had whipped around, the blade of its attacker caught awkwardly between its claws.

Half a second later, the rogue carver—the last of the Tristram demons, fell—it was dead.

The beast released a low, pained whimper—and then collapsed heavily onto the sorceress.

Cordelia gasped—her pallid eyes widened with shock, fear, and pain as a fresh wave of nausea overcame her. And yet slowly, bit by bit, the beast began to change. The fur disappeared—and its tail shrank away into nothingness. Its claws—and its fangs diminished in size, and the grey-streaked ears melted away.

The portal to the Rogue's Encampment flickered—and then disappeared in a myriad of blue and black sparks.

The sorceress's breath came in short, ragged gasps—she thought she could recognise the weary, dark-grey eyes of the man atop her.

And then, the world turned black—and she knew no more.

* * *

The world spun in shades of browns and greens; the colours of nature. Golden sunlight streamed through the open flaps of the High Priestess's tent-quarters. It was a day of fine weather. And yet, the atmosphere within the encampment was naught short of thick—a still sort of silence had fallen upon the rogues.

She'd caught snippets of whispered conversations between the rogues on guard duties—that Master Saul had emerged, staggering, from the depths of a portal, bearing her limp body in his arms.

_And that he'd collapsed mere seconds later. _

The rogues—Kashya, in particular, had chosen to place all blame upon the the sorceress. Why could she not aid the druid in battle? Surely she was not _that_ weak? And if, she were indeed, a weakling mage of vague talent—what was she doing within the encampment?

Liene alone of the fighter rogues had been pleasant—it was she who'd restored the sorceress to full health, spending hour upon hour drawing the fever from her blood. Charsi had become withdrawn, choosing to spend her days working feverishly at her forge—Cordelia found that she could not quite blame her. Saul was, after all, her cousin.

"Please wake up, Saul—" Cordelia whispered quietly. She sat at the edge of a faded futon of wine-coloured velvet within the High Priestess's tent—upon which the druid lay. He had yet to awaken. "Saul—" With tentative fingers, she reached out to stroke gently at his ashen cheek. "I need you to wake up."

"He won't awaken, Tia-aldyn Ciryx." Akara had entered her tent—she offered the tiniest of smiles towards the sorceress, and lowered herself gently onto a stool beside the futon. "I believe—" She paused; and the faintest hints of sadness touched her aged face. "—I believe that he has been poisoned."

Cordelia stiffened—she turned towards the High Priestess, frowning slightly. "Poisoned?" She whispered—somehow, it seemed rude to speak in louder tones. Saul deserved rest. "—is there an antidote for the poison in his system?"

The High Priestess sighed quietly—she took the sorceress's hand in her own, shaking her head just a touch. "I'm sorry, child. The poison was—" Here, she paused, as though thinking—then continued. "—a mixture of various kinds of poisons. It is going to take Gheed and myself quite some time to figure out—"

"Gheed—?"

Akara allowed the tiniest of smiles to grace her pallid lips. "Many do not know this, but Gheed is of a family of alchemists—his mother, Melechai Dai'mung, was an extremely gifted potion-maker."

Cordelia chewed heavily upon her lower lip; somehow, she found it rather difficult to swallow. Gheed seemed more crafty and sly, as opposed to intelligent and well-learnt. "How long will you need?" She lowered her gaze towards the druid once more, and then added in undertones—"How long does he have?"

"At the very least, two more days—and we _will_ figure it out before then. Be patient, child."

They had sat in silence for several long minutes before the sorceress deigned to speak once more. She bowed her head slightly—a crimson flush had begun to rise at her neck.

"High Priestess Akara—" She began.

Akara merely nodded; she had begun to change the druid's bandages.

"—I'm sorry."

The High Priestess blinked mildly towards the sorceress, her fingers working deftly at the deep gash. For a moment or two, Cordelia watched her—a faint grimmace upon her face at the sight of tainted flesh. The area around the gash was black—decayed.

"It wasn't your fault, child. He—" She sighed, shifting her gaze towards the unconscious druid. "—Saul, he wouldn't have been able to rest until you were safe again. He _couldn't_ abandon you."

The sorceress bit her lip. "He got hurt trying to rescue me."

"He got hurt wanting to protect you, child. He wanted it." Akara began. Then, reaching out—"Would you please hand me that bowl of paste? It is not the antidote, but it will slow the poison somewhat."

Cordelia obliged; the paste within smelt faintly of lemongrass, nettles, and chamomile—a bright chrome in colour.

"He'll be just fine." The High Priestess smiled ever so slightly—she began to dab the paste about the darkened edges of the gash. "Don't worry."

She'd been watching Akara in silence for several long minutes, when heavy footsteps in the clearing outside alerted her of a new arrival. Then, a raging tempest broke into the tent—in the form of the Captain of the rogues.

"What are _you_ doing in here?" She snarled, as she entered.

Akara did not straighten—did not turn to meet her sister's gaze. "Kashya." Her voice was quiet, though stern.

The Captain narrowed her eyes towards the sorceress—who returned the stony glare in kind. "Gheed wishes to speak to you. I think he's found the poisons."

Cordelia could not quite contain the gasp that came to her throat—it mattered not that Kashya had thrown a look of deepest disdain towards her once more. She stood, and threw her hair over her shoulder.

"Come, child." Akara, too, had gotten to her feet. "Kashya."

They crossed the encampment in but a few easy strides, causing several resting rogues to jump in surprise—the High Priestess rarely left her clearing.

Gheed was by no means a tall man—he stood at a height of about five-and-a-half feet. The High Priestess and the Captain both towered over him—and Cordelia was just about his height. He looked up as they came towards him—and smiled a very sly smile.

"You have identified the poisons?" Akara spoke first.

The man interlaced his fingers—he nodded once. "Aye, that I have. His symptoms are the chills, skin decay, a fever, incessant bleeds—" He paused, wrinkling his nose to show disgust. "The chills and the fever can be attributed to a mixture of blowfish-and-river toad poison. And the skin decay—that's traces of daffle-flower; a beauty to behold, poisonous to the very touch."

"And the incessant bleeds?" Cordelia began, through gritted teeth. She had never liked Gheed much.

"A result of nightrose-thorns." He said. "A mixture of all these poisons are far deadlier than they would be, by themselves."

Akara exhaled—she seemed relieved. "Then we must begin with the antidote—Gheed, do you know which ingredients we shall require?"

For a moment or two, Cordelia thought she'd imagined the smirk that crept slowly up the merchant's face. It was not before Kashya snarled—and leapt towards him, that she'd known; her imagination had not lied.

"I _have_ the antidote." Gheed said—rather calmly. Apparently, he had become accustomed to Kashya standing over him with hate in her eyes.

Akara was not daunted. "Give it to me, Gheed." Her words were tight—sterner than usual. "Now."

The merchant shrugged once. "For a price, I will."

"You—" Kashya had reached the very limits of her patience—with a low growl, she grabbed Gheed by the front of his shirt, and pressed him against the side of his caravan. "—how _dare_ you ask for compensation, when you remain here in our protection for naught!"

"Kashya." Akara began, cooly. "Let him go."

Gheed brushed mildly at the front of his tunic as Kashya snarled, and pushed him away with rather a rough hand. With a faint smirk, he reached into his sleeve—and withdrew a tiny vial of colourless antidote. "Five thousand gold pieces."

"Why don't we just throw you out into the wilderness?" Cordelia narrowed her eyes slightly.

The merchant laughed, and patted his giant belly. "You wouldn't. By the way you've been looking at your hero—" He cleared his throat, taking a seat upon the stool by his caravan. "—you wouldn't leave him to die. Not after he risked his life for you." Here, he paused, and smirked. "—Besides, if you throw me out, you'll lose the antidote. Forever."

At this precise moment, as Kashya made an angry sound from the depths of her throat, it became clear to Cordelia—_dislike_ was far too mild a word to describe her feelings towards the merchant.

_Hate_ was a much better choice.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Chapter seven for you guys! And yes, I am aware that Gheed is a terrible scumbag. Never liked him much—and never liked Deckard Cain either. He's not mentioned much here. Haha!

My thanks go out to:

**Ophelion:** Thanks for that heart-felt review! It made me giggle, because you seemed so happy about that last chapter I put out. Heh, and I'm sorry about the bird-chatter mix up. I'd italic-ed it in my word document, but it showed up un-italic-ed (I don't think this is a word..) in the web browser. Also, thanks for your wonderful comments on my made-up-language! My pride and joy! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

**Vain-Kn1ght:** Welcome to my throng of reviewers! I'm glad you're thinking its going to be good in the end. I actually have the entire story all planned out. I hope you'll stick around, and keep reading and reviewing! Oh, and the spelling errors might be a result of the American/British spelling difference? I might have made some spelling errors here and there too, but I spell the Brit way. .

Also, I wrote the part for Saul and Cordy's first kiss. It's so far away—not even in this act, but I had fun writing it because it was so—wow. I enjoyed writing it. Hee!

Thanks again for the reads and reviews—gimme more! I love hearing from my readers!

Signing out for now!


	9. Chapter 8: Of Golden Ruin

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**Chapter 8: Of Golden Ruin**

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"I don't see why we can't just take the antidote by force."

The three women stood in grim shadows before the roaring bonfire—the sorceress, the Captain, and the Lieutenant. Akara had returned to the druid's side—he required constant attention, should something fall amiss. It had been but hours since Gheed had made his offer. Five thousand gold pieces, for the tiny vial of antidote.

_Five thousand gold pieces for Saul's life._

Cordelia thinned her lips impatiently. Never in her life had she met such a villian—one to hold an antidote over the head of a dying man; all for the sake of a sack of gold. She folded her arms, throwing a look of greatest disgust toward the merchant's tent. He stood beside his caravan, and, having caught sight of her, smirked, and lifted his goblet in a faraway toast.

"And bring dishonour to our sisterhood, Captain?" Liene replied—she was, by far, the calmest of the three. "We cannot."

Kashya threw her hands in the air, growling in frustration. "What can we do, then? Leave Saul to die?" She turned her back to the fire, one hand clasped over the nape of her neck.

Liene exhaled, and then rolled her shoulders back with rather a tensed air. "We're going to have to pay him."

"With _what?_" The Captain scowled. "We barely make do here—there is nothing of value to give him."

"We'll just have to find the gold somehow." The Lieutenant shifted her gaze momentarily towards the sorceress—and then returned her eyes to the other. "There is time, yet."

Cordelia inhaled silently, allowing her hands to fall to her sides. Mixed emotions raged within her being—guilt, and fear being the most prominent. She could not allow Saul to die—she would not.

It would taint her conscience forever, to know that he'd given his life to save her.

She watched the rogues argue for the briefest of moments—then turned away, and made towards Akara's clearing. Perhaps the High Priestess required aid; she would only be too glad to offer her service. At any rate, the sorceress did not quite feel as if she should remain idle much further—she required work, at the very least, to keep her mind off the druid.

The High Priestess stood at the entrance of her tent—her expression was grim, much like the one she'd worn when Cordelia had first awoken. She inclined her head gently towards the sorceress in greeting.

"Hello, Tia-aldyn." She smiled slightly—and her forehead creased somewhat, the wrinkles forming vaguely upon the pallid skin. "Have you come to seek solitude from my fiery-tempered sister?"

Cordelia offered the faintest of smiles towards the High Priestess; she shook her head. "I came to see if he'd—" She paused, biting down upon her lower lip. "—that is to say, if Saul had awoken."

Akara shook her head briefly; the sorceress thought she saw a trace of sympathy flashing past the Priestess's eyes. "I do not believe so. You may enter if you wish—but try not to awaken Deckard Cain. He is resting."

Cordelia blinked once, and then twice—she'd quite forgotten that such a person existed, in between feeling guilt and concern for Saul. She chuckled faintly; and then nodded.

"I'll—" She smiled in spite of herself. "—try not to knock any pots over."

The High Priestess laughed—and then waved the sorceress away.

For the most part, the High Priestess's tent was devoid of light—the flaps had been kept shut, to allow its current inhabitants peace and darkness in which to recuperate. A single, diminutive candle, kept within a jar of stained-glass offered what light it could—a mild beam of golden glow.

The sorceress tiptoed silently across the tent—to a corner, she could see the grey-robed figure of Deckard Cain, deep in slumber upon a faded jade divan. She could only guess the true extent of his injuries, both in body and in spirit—yet, she did not worry much for the old man; Akara had deduced that he would, in time, heal.

Cordelia lowered herself upon the stool beside the druid—and then clasped her hand over her mouth to stiffle the gasp of surprise that consumed her throat.

The druid's eyes were wide open—the grey orbs watched her fondly for several long seconds.

And then, the faintest of smiles graced his pallid lips.

She sat in shocked silence, merely content to stare upon his face. It seemed an eternity later before her voice returned to her. "You're—awake." She whispered; it was somewhat difficult to keep the quavering of her voice at minimum.

He chuckled weakly—and then coughed. "Did you think I was going to die?" His voice was hoarse—she'd supposed he was thirsty.

"I—" She began, stiffly. And then, having found nothing better to say—"You worried me."

The druid reached out to take a hold of her hand—gently. He seemed to have little strength, though he bore his ailment with the gallantry of a prince. "Hush, Cordy. You look as if you would cry over me—I am not quite dead." He paused, and then added—"Not yet, at least."

Cordelia squeezed his fingers. "You've been poisoned. We need to get the antidote." She felt like crying—but she knew better. It would not do to distress the druid in such condition. "And don't be silly." She grumbled, frowning slightly. "I'm not going to let you die."

He chuckled slightly—and then nodded. "I know."

"Saul—"

The druid smirked just a touch; for a moment or two, the sorceress wondered at his ability to remain optimistic, even in the face of death. "Should I assume—" He murmured. "—that Gheed is lending his alchemy expertise to our High Priestess?"

"Yes, but—"

He shook his head slightly, and then continued. "—Then he will want payment."

Cordelia blinked. "Yes, but—"

"How much?" The druid asked, grimly.

"You really shouldn't ask." The sorceress muttered, quietly. She gave his hand another gentle squeeze. "We'll get you better. Don't ask, and don't worry."

He smiled weakly; and then, unclasping his hand from hers—"There's a big chance—" He began, dark grey orbs watching the sorceress intently. "—that I won't awaken, the next time I fall asleep."

Cordelia shook her head furtively—a thin layer of mist had begun to form over her eyes. "Be quiet." She hissed. "I don't want to hear this."

The druid exhaled softly—then shut his eyes. "I never said I was going to die. I simply said that I wasn't going to wake up—at least, not until you manage to pry the antidote from Gheed's gold-starved hands."

She stared blankly at him for several long seconds—and then chuckled softly, rather against her will. "How—" She muttered. "—do you know _so_ much about _everyone _and_ everything_?"

He did not answer immediately—it was almost as if he'd fallen asleep. And then, catching the sorceress quite by surprise, he mumbled. "Magic." He paused, and then continued—"Don't let me die, Cordy."

The sorceress bit fiercely down upon her lower lip. "I swear to God, you fool—if you die, so help me, I will slap you so hard, your past life will hurt."

She thought she saw a flicker of a smile cross his lips—and then, with a quiet exhale, he was still once more.

* * *

"The Forgotten Tower." Cordelia crossed her arms firmly over her abdomen, her stance firm. "If there's any hope at all of finding the lost treasure—any hope at all, I am going."

Kashya lifted a crimson brow—clearly, the idea itself was revolting to her. "That place is accursed."

The two stood at the edge of the Adura river—gazing out into the darkened moor beyond the grey-stone bridge. Cordelia had found the Rogue Captain, alone on guard duty at the riverbank—silent in solemn thoughts. She, too, seemed perturbed at the druid's imminent doom.

The sorceress thinned her lips. She'd expected such an answer. "I don't care."

"Many have gone." The Captain threw a scathing glance towards the sorceress—teal orbs locked upon those of blue with glints of distaste and mistrust. "And they have not returned. Evil lurks within those catacombs—you will not live to tell the tale."

Cordelia tossed her hair irritably over her shoulder. "I don't care." She repeated her words.

The Captain looked her up and down—as though appraising her, for several long seconds. "Where, in all the realms, did you hear of the Forgotten Tower?"

"There lies a tome within the Stony Fields. Saul and I happened upon it whilst searching for the entrance into Nerheid's Belly." She said, simply.

Kashya rolled her eyes—and then shrugged. "A mere dream. It is but a trap for fools seeking riches and glory." She gave the sorceress a rather pointed sneer, and then continued—"It is naught but golden ruin."

"It may be Saul's only chance." Cordelia gritted her teeth—her grip of her staff tightening somewhat visibly. She had little patience for the Captain. "I came to tell you because I thought it was something you should know. If that is all you have to say, _Captain_, I must bid you farewell. I have a friend to save." She scowled, before turning and striding away.

She'd barely walked two steps, however, before—"Hold, _Tia-aldyn_ Ciryx. I will accompany you."

* * *

It seemed as if half of forever had passed before the derelict walls of the Forgotten Tower became visible. Many centuries had passed since the tower's greater days—it stood in collapsed heaps of moss-covered stone. Various sorts of thorny vines and bushes had, in time, grown wild over these stones; and the greenery served only to emphasize the ominous atmosphere about the ruins.

They had, for the most part, maintained a steady pace through the Blackened Marshes—for whatever reasons, the demons were few in these parts of Entsteig. They were not fool enough to question their good fortunes—it had been with severe determination, that they'd pressed onwards.

Cordelia bit her lip—and then glanced about for several long minutes. The sun had long since settled within the west; night had fallen. "I don't think there are any more of them." She said, after a moment. "We should hurry."

The Captain nodded stiffly. They had not spoken much, though the hours had taught the sorceress the true extent of the rogues' skills with the bow. "I agree." She seemed troubled—perhaps it was the stench of decay that lingered thick within the air; perhaps it was the odd sensation of approaching shadows.

"In there. Let's go." Cordelia muttered. She could hear murmurs beneath the ground—almost as if the dead were calling out to her from within the collapsed tower.

And yet, she would not relent, would not give in to fear, nor trepidation; gritting her teeth, the sorceress gripped her staff, hard, and ducked her head through a broken archway—the entrance into the tower of forgotten darkness, itself. She was vaguely aware of the Captain's presence behind her.

"Down there."

The rectangular trap-door had been built into the ground—it lay surrounded by blades of dark green grass, partially hidden beneath centuries of mud, soil, and roots. Cordelia knelt—she could just make out the shape of a single silver loop built into the wood; a means of pulling the trap-door open.

She gave it a stiff tug. "It won't budge."

Kashya pursed her lips slightly; and then waved the sorceress aside. "Move."

"What are you thinking?" Cordelia frowned as she straightened.

The Captain wrinkled her nose as she stepped right up to the trap-door. For a moment or two, she stared thoughtfully at the moss-covered wood—and then, almost as if she'd meant to do it all along, drove her boot heavily through it with a resounding crash.

It fell quite easily apart; splintered pieces of broken wood fell in every direction as she shot a look of triumphant smugness towards the sorceress. Half a minute later, she'd leapt through the broken door, into the darkness.

Cordelia rolled her eyes as she lowered herself into the murky chasms. The Captain was sure to be unbearable for the rest of the journey.

Kashya stood by a flight of descending steps. She'd been gazing downwards, but looked up as the sorceress approached her. "They await us below." She hissed. "We have to take them by surprise."

The sorceress wrinkled her brow slightly—and then held up her palm, where a brightly-burning orb of crimson and amber flames crackled. Even the simplicity of light brought new warmth to the hitherto cold entrance chamber; it illuminated darker corners and chased at the shadows.

"I doubt we'd surprise them. After all, _you_ created that din with the trap door. They probably heard you all the way in Aranoch." She tossed her hair over her shoulder—and was pleased to see the Captain scowling.

They crept down the stairs—the sorceress at the head of the party. The flames flickered, still, within the palm of her hand; it lit their way along the crumbled steps. Once or twice, Cordelia found herself slipping—but almost instantly regained her footing. She would not allow herself the luxury of making clumsy mistakes; Saul's life depended upon their return.

The croaking sounds of demons' cries penetrated the walls and filled their ears long before they reached the bottom. Cordelia bit her lip—her grip of her staff tightened somewhat, as the ball of flames crackled merrily within her palm. She could hear Kashya's uptight breaths behind her; clearly, the rogue, too, anticipated the coming battle.

It happened in a flurry of demonic shrieks and flashes of serrated blades—the hellspawn came upon the sorceress and the rogue in waves of chalcopyrite and crimson. Cordelia never saw her companion's arrows—she'd found herself deep in battle amidst a clan of goat-headed, bold-bodied men.

She grunted heavily as she sidestepped the cleaving blow of a large scythe—her opponents could only be described as gruesome. The goat-men stood several feet greater than her in height; and the entirety of their bodies had been tainted with crimson blood. They _reeked_—of death and decay.

Jumping aside to avoid yet another fatal blow, the sorceress lifted her staff, and shrieked—"_Caer dyoniatche!_"

The sparkling explosion of fire brought several goat-men to their knees—they cried out in fright and in pain.

Cordelia narrowed her eyes, lowering her staff slightly. And then—"_Durque dyianatche._"

Crystalline shards of scarlet ice rained upon the ground as a sudden silence enveloped the chamber. The sorceress winced distastefully—the ice had begun to melt, forming puddles of crimson blood upon the cracked floors. She spared herself but a mere second's breath—and then whipped around to meet Kashya's steely gaze.

"Nice job." The Captain muttered—rather grudgingly.

Cordelia smirked slightly, but nodded. "You too."

"Yes, well—" Kashya cleared her throat stiffly; then looked about. "We should get moving."

The sorceress shook her head. Wrinkling her nose in disgust, she knelt upon the ground. The crystalline remains of the goat-men had melted away to reveal several pieces of gold upon the ground. "We should search the corpses."

Kashya lifted a brow. "What?"

"They might hold things of value—" Cordelia muttered. "Like this." She winced slightly—and held up a blood-stained diamond of minute proportions. "Small, but—Gheed sounds like the sort to take _anything_ of value at the worst of times."

The Captain rolled her eyes—though an-ever-so-small smirk graced her lips. Perhaps it was the closest thing to a smile, that she could manage. For the first time since leaving the Rogue Encampment with her, Cordelia felt at ease; and it was with a rather faint smile that she returned her gaze to the diamond.

_Perhaps their journey would not be so bad, after all._

* * *

"So—why do _you_ worry for Saul?"

They sat side by side upon the last flight of steps—the threshold through to the final battle. Four floors worth of battles had wearied the women; the demons had been fierce, and the skirmishes, difficult. They were in dire need of a good, long breather.

"What do you mean?" Kashya winced slightly as she spoke . She'd suffered a long, deep gash along the length of her arm—the cut was bleeding copiously.

Cordelia wrinkled her nose. Reaching into her pack, she withdrew a crystalline vial of crimson potion—one of their very last, and uncorked it. "Here." She handed it towards the rogue. "You need it more than I do."

"Thank you." The rogue muttered, before taking a swig. Lifting her arm gingerly, she made a face—and then spat the potion onto the wound.

"Most people just—drink those." Cordelia observed mildly.

Kashya gave the sorceress a rather exasperated look—then lifted the vial to her lips, and drank the rest in one gulp. "I daren't attempt pouring it over the wound. I might pour the whole lot out—and that won't do."

Cordelia rolled her shoulders back into a slight shrug. "It helps the wounds externally, yes?"

"Yes. But it hurts—" The Captain muttered through gritted teeth. All the colour seemed to drain from her face as she clasped a hand over the afflicted arm. "—like all hell. That is why we don't use the potion this way—" She paused, releasing a low moan. "—very often."

The sorceress watched grimly as her companion shut her eyes. For a moment or two, she considered the benefits of sending the Captain home—then almost instantly disposed of the idea. Somehow, Kashya did not seem the kind to fall back at the very end of a task.

"Just a moment longer." She whispered, having found nothing else of comfort to say.

Kashya winced slightly—then murmured. "I think—" She began, stiffly. "—that Saul is a good person. I am concerned for him because of the vision he upholds—a world devoid of darkness and death."

Cordelia found herself smiling just a touch. "That is true."

"But that is not your true question." The Captain muttered, through gritted teeth. "You want to know why I came _with_ you."

"That, too." The sorceress chuckled briefly—and then stretched her arms out above her head.

"I care for him."

Cordelia blinked—once, and then twice. She'd not expected such an answer. With a faint, almost amused chuckle, she shook her head. "I don't find that difficult to believe."

The Captain had opened her eyes—she watched the sorceress for several long moments, her icy-teal orbs searching. "Why did _you_ come, then?"

"Same reason you did, I think." The sorceress crooked a tiny smile. "—but not that similar." She thought she could see the Captain's brow furrow at her answer, however faintly.

"How so?"

"I think—" Cordelia began, awkwardly. She did not quite know how to put her thoughts into words. "—I think that Saul reminds me of—the brother I never had. Or my favourite cousin." She massaged her temples gently, before releasing a softened snicker. "You needn't worry, Captain Kashya."

Kashya watched her solemnly for several long seconds—and then nodded.

The next few minutes passed in sheer silence; each of them absorbed within their own thoughts. Finally, the sorceress stood—brushing herself off, she gazed down towards the rogue, and tilted her head slightly. "Shall we be on our way?"

The final depths of the tower cellars spoke of centuries of torment—marble fountains of crimson blood lined the walls of the center-room, from corner to corner. The foul stench of death and decay lingered within the air, mingled amidst the heavy, oddly-cloying scent of flowers—perfume.

Cordelia frowned slightly—it was a most suspicious scent. "Captain Kashya—" She began.

"It's the countess." The other hissed. "Didn't you _finish_ reading that tome in the Stony Fields?"

The sorceress chuckled weakly—and then shook her head. "Saul read it out loud, but I wasn't paying much attention."

"Very smart." Kashya smirked. "Just—expect a fight."

They crept alongside the walls, wary-eyed and stiff-footed. From beyond the corners of the deserted center-hall came the sounds of screams—wails of torment and cries of pain. Amidst these shrieks, low, and yet piercingly sweet whispers echoed through the chambers; most likely the product of the same being.

Cordelia flinched slightly—the heavily-fragranced halls were causing waves of nausea to wash over her—it was _almost_ unbearable. She gritted her teeth, steeling herself. She'd have to brave the source of the sickening scent, to save the druid's life.

_Would perfume suffice in the murder of a sorceress?_

She smirked slightly—and then shook herself to seriousness; they stood, now, at the doorway of the back-chamber. From within the dimly-lit chamber came the sounds of laughter—joyful cackles of a sweet-sounding evil.

Cordelia rolled her eyes—she turned to the Captain; together, they nodded in unison, and in understanding.

"_Care for a blood-bath—?"_

And then, as the shrieks of laughter pierced the halls in infinite volumes, they took their stances—and charged.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Hello again, everybody! I really enjoy tormenting Kashya, as y'all probably can see from this chapter. Hah, bet y'all never saw her little crush on Saul coming! –Or, maybe you did.

Anyways, I'd like to give credit to a friend of mine, **Sharyl** for the sentence: "I'll hit you so hard, your past life will hurt." I love this line—I've used it for two fics, to date. Heh!

Also, I want you guys to know that:

**Caer dyoniatche **is pronounced 'Kai-ay-er die-oh-nee-atch'. Kai as in Bye, and Atch as in Hatch.

**Durque dyianatche **is pronounced 'Dew-urk die-a-natch'. Natch as in Hatch.

Many thanks, also, to **Ophelion** for religiously (so to speak), reviewing this tale of mine! I really appreciate your reviews and comments, and many's a time you've pointed out some error or another that I've failed to detect. Thank you so much! And yes, I'm glad I'm hurting my characters too—only, I feel sorry for poor Saul. Heh—also! I want you to know, (not that you don't already) that I am, indeed, not much of a solid-graphic-blood kind of person. Sorry—I hope I don't disappoint you!

Thanks again! And remember to R and R, you other readers!


	10. Chapter 9: A Rogue's Heart

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* * *

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**Chapter 9: A Rogue's Heart**

* * *

The crimson stains were _everywhere_.

Cobwebbed tapestries hung from corner to corner of the countess's private chamber—over which several decades' worth of dust and soot had collected. A fountain carved of dull-grey stone stood at the very center of the room, adorned with a rather gruesome-looking centerpiece of cherubs entwined within thorny vines.

It was naught but crimson blood that flowed freely from within the urns of the cherubs.

She stood by the fountain, her slender fingers dipped delicately within the gently bubbling liquid. Her hair was pure ivory—it flowed in silken waves over her curvacious figure. She wore a gown of embroidered silver satin, upon which countless diamonds of excellent quality had been sewn.

Cordelia thought that the countess might have been beautiful—she certainly had an air of exquisiteness about her. And then there was her high, proud nose, delicate lips; and cheekbones that looked as though they'd been carved of marble.

Yes. Perhaps she _had_ been beautiful. The sorceress did not care much, for all that stood before her was a scornful woman; who in death thought herself fairest still within the realms.

The countess's eyes flashed crimson—and her lips curled upwards in a smile both sweet and terrible. In a single, sweeping movement, she was afoot—the many skirts of her gown billowed about, revealing a pair of lissom, well-muscled legs as she fashioned a bow out of thin air. Turning towards the sorceress, she flexed her fingers—and then released a single, shimmering arrow.

Cordelia inhaled sharply; her eyes widened just a touch as she lifted her free hand, and gasped, "_Caer thioniadyrm!_"

The crimson bolt of fire collided mid-air with the arrow; together, they exploded to form a myriad of crackling sparks and embers.

The countess laughed; she flung her free arm out into the wide space, releasing a shrill, almost inhuman screech. Cordelia cringed—clasping her hands over her ears as she cast a sideways glance towards her companion; Kashya's eyes were narrowed ever so slightly, emotionless—without fear.

And then, with no warning whatsoever, a great sisterhood of corrupted rogue archers broke into the chamber from all sides. The countess laughed ever harder; with a great many cries of triumph, and countless tens of stray arrows, the siege of the Forgotten Tower began.

Cordelia gritted her teeth as she ducked arrow after arrow—many of the rogues held magic within their veins. She noted, with grim distaste, that the arrows that came so close to piercing her flesh were bewitched and enchanted; they carried frost and fire within their bronze-plated heads.

Her heart in her throat, Cordelia charged towards a group of rogues—sparks of adrenaline flowed through her veins as she lifted her staff, and summoned the magic within her; and cried—"_Adis arquech!_"

It happened in a flash of bright, sparkling lights—the chamber echoed with cries of shock and surprise as a ring of ivory lightning expanded from the very soles of the sorceress's boots; it barbed across the grey-stone floors in various crackling designs.

She was only faintly aware that Kashya had ceased all attempts at battlings; the Captain stood agape within a corner of her own, her bow held loose within the palm of her hand. Perhaps it was shock that held her so—and perhaps it was the sudden lack of opponents within the chamber; for many of the corrupted rogue archers had fallen dead onto the ground, having come into unfortunate contact with the supernova of electricity.

A second of shocked silence followed, in which the countess stood still—her gown fell loose over her shoulders as her crimson eyes studied the slumped figures of her fallen warriors. And then, with an ear-splitting screech, she lifted her bow, aimed towards the sorceress, and let loose a fire-imbued arrow.

Cordelia cried out in fright—then jumped out of the way of the arrow. It hit a wall of wooden barrels behind her; and the effect was immediate. The barrels burst into flames, with bangs and explosions not unlike that of the sorceress's fireballs. "Kashya!" She shrieked.

"What?" The Captain stood amidst a battle of her own; she fired arrow after arrow in rapid succession towards the wave of rogue archers surrounding her.

"Kill the rest of them!" The sorceress grunted heavily—several of the barrels nearer to her had caught fire; within mere seconds, they'd exploded in bursts of fireworks and flames. The force sent her crashing into the wall behind her; she cried out in pain; then gritted her teeth and straightened, disregarding the river of blood coursing down along her forehead and cheek.

"What in the name of the devil—do you think—" Kashya yelled. Her voice bore a rather irritable quality; Cordelia could only suppose that she was _busy_ amidst the demons. "—that I'm doing right now?!"

"Sorry!" She shrieked—and then dodged yet another arrow that came towards her. "Augh!"

She found, with dismay, that her vision was somewhat diminished; the free-flowing blood had begun to make its way into the corners of her eyes—it stung. The countess had sensed her weakness; she gave a low, throaty laugh of glee—then made towards the sorceress, bowstring drawn taut. A single, glimmering arrow had been fixed upon the string—it crackled with dark magic.

It would, no doubt, strike a _very_ painful wound.

The sorceress took but a second to stare at the arrow—then ducked low beneath its range, and lifted her staff. "_Caer sapher!_" She winced slightly at the sudden warmth upon her face—for a bright, blazing length of flames, not unlike that of dragon's breath, had erupted from within the headpiece of her staff.

She'd barely had two seconds to register the warmth of the fire upon her face; an icy chill had begun to descend within the shadows of the chamber. The inferno within her staff—which had previously burnt an ever brilliant shade of crimson flickered; and then, almost as a snuffed candle would, went out.

Cordelia gasped—and the countess smirked, crimson eyes alit with maddening glee. And with a single, swift swipe of her bony hand, the sorceress's staff came loose of its owner's grip; it fell to the ground in a series of clattering beats.

_Clearly, mere magic was of no use against such an opponent._

The sorceress inhaled sharply—then jumped to her feet. She'd spotted salvation upon one of the walls of the darkened chamber: a pair of double-edged blades, arranged beneath the steel womb of a single, circular shield.

She'd never been particularly good with such weapons; it was with a softened grunt of determination that the sorceress tugged the blades loose of their stony prison. Blade in each hand, she turned—and faced the countess, her mouth set into a thin, grim line.

The countess, too, had disposed of her bow—she held a wide, serrated blade in one hand, and a heavily-spiked shield, in the other. She smirked—then charged towards the sorceress, poised to kill.

Cordelia thought she could feel the heavy thumping of her heart against her chest—and yet, she was determined to win the battle. She gritted her teeth; then raised her blade to meet that of the countess's. Steel met steel in thundering clashes—both were determined to remain the last one standing.

"Ungh!" The sorceress staggered back—her mere half second's hesitation had cost her; the countess had taken advantage of her situation to place a slender, but deep gash upon her cheek.

_Of course,_ Cordelia thought, as she cursed at the fates, _the countess would be trained in melee—as well as the arcane arts._ For one so obssessed with beauty, it came as rather a surprise that the woman knew her way about a battlefield.

Releasing a rather faint grunt under her breath, Cordelia dodged yet another blow—and then, without quite thinking it through, she lifted her swords as she would a great pair of shears; then swept them through the air, in an attempt at severing the countess's neck.

The countess moved, with ease, out of the way—she cackled with amusement even as she raised her own sword to slash at the sorceress.

Cordelia bit her lower lip, her brow creasing into a faint scowl. She sidestepped the countess, and raised her blade. The countess laughed; in a flurry of billowing silver satin, she flew at her opponent—it was time to finish the fight—

And then, with a clattering of fallen weapons, the entire chamber was engulfed in light—and a piercing scream filled the cold, still air of the Forgotten Tower.

And when the light dissolved into darkness once more, the sorceress stood, panting heavily, over the crumpled corpse of the once-beautiful countess.

"Aha—" She whispered faintly—out of the corner of her wearied eyes, she thought she could see several mounds of glimmering gold coins. And then, her legs gave way—she fell onto the ground, and surrendered herself to the enfolding darkness.

* * *

"Wake up."

Cordelia groaned quietly; she could feel a boot in her side. It seemed to want to waken her—even as she clasped a hand over her eyes, in an attempt to return to the darkness, it nudged her; hard.

She stirred slightly—though she could not find the strength to pry her eyes open.

"Wake up right now." The voice that spoke was dangerously low. "Or I shall leave you here."

The sorceress moaned softly—then allowed a single, pallid eye to flutter open. "—Kashya?"

"Obviously."

"Ungh."

It was several seconds later before she came to realise that she lay strewn over a mangled corpse—she could feel the bony abdomen of the countess with the point of her chin.

With a soft cry of disgust, Cordelia jumped to her feet—then winced. Every inch of her skull ached—as did her side. For several long seconds, she could only stare; at the countess, and at the rogue Captain. When she found her voice again, it was low—almost a whisper. "What happened?"

Kashya smirked slightly—she seemed rather unsympathetic. "You cast a spell. And she died." She lifted a torch from its hook—then wrinkled her brow slightly.

Cordelia saw, now, that there had been a hitherto unnoticed ledge—built into the walls of the chamber, as it were. It ran from wall to wall—joined from corner to corner. The Captain lowered the torch—then stood back, smiling as crimson flames burst forth upon the ledge; and these flames spread as wildfire would upon oil, illuminating the vast expanses of the riches within the chamber.

"—and?" The sorceress muttered blearily—she did not feel quite well enough to show amazement at the treasure. "That's it?"

"Yes." The Captain said, simply. She had begun to stride about the grandly-lit chamber; with a soft—"Ha!" of triumph, she knelt by a corner—then shifted aside to reveal a jewel-encrusted chest of lacquered rosewood. "We can keep some of the gold in this."

Cordelia rubbed bleakly at the side of her head—then nodded. She pulled a vial from her pack—then swallowed its contents in two long draughts.

_They had much work to do._

The chamber was filled with piles and piles of gold—mounds of silver, and countless heaps of gems and jewels. By the time they were ready to return to the encampment, they _heaved_ between them, in addition to the jewel-encrusted rosewood, three gilded chests and four large sacks—within which the riches of the Forgotten Tower had been stored.

Dawn had begun to creep over the reddish skies when the sorceress and the rogue stumbled through the blue-black portal. Their appearance had, at first, startled several young rogue scouts—surely, their Captain would not be caught in such senseless company? They eyed the sorceress dubiously—then lifted their hands in salutations towards their battle-commander.

Cordelia returned the rogues' scathing gazes—then turned on her heels, and strode to a quieter corner of the encampment. "Stupid little women." She muttered darkly under her breath.

"You cannot blame them for being wary, Tia-aldyn Cordelia." Kashya had come up behind her—the rogue seemed somewhat amused, though her voice retained its cool demeanor. "They do not know you enough to trust you."

"Do _you_ trust me?" The sorceress lifted her gaze towards the Captain, her pallid eyes searching. After several short seconds of silence, she lowered herself onto the ground, emptied a chest of gold onto the grass, and began to count.

She had supposed that Kashya was watching her—she could certainly _feel_ the rogue's eyes upon the red of her hair. Half a moment later, the rogue had settled herself onto the grass before her. She, too, began to count.

And then—"Yes."

Cordelia smiled slightly—though she did not think to speak. Several moments of passed in which the two sat in companiable silence. And then, the deed was done—the gold lay in glittering heaps upon the grass, their true value amassed.

"Seventy-four thousand, eighty hundred and twenty nine gold pieces." The sorceress sat in solemn awe. "And that's without the added values of the gems and jewels—"

"—nor the other pieces of jewelry, nor the silver." Kashya finished. She, too, seemed stunned. "Shall we begin to rejoice by dancing about the bonfire?"

Cordelia threw her hair over her shoulders, and began to laugh. Somehow, the thought of the stiff-mannered, solemn Captain dancing amused her greatly. And then, with rather a rogue-ish grin—"_You_ can dance. But do it after Saul awakens—I think he'd enjoy the sight."

Kashya smirked—and then began to heap smaller columns of gold into a small potato sack. "Five thousand gold pieces for Gheed—" She began. "—then we can divide the rest."

The sorceress quirked a weak smile. To think of such wealth, surely, would cause great headaches. "Here, I'll handle Gheed." She reached out to take a hold of the sack. And then, with rather a grim frown—"Do you think he'd ask for more?"

The Captain shrugged—then plucked a jewel-encrusted dagger from one of the piles. She held it out towards the sorceress.

"You think he'll be happy with this?" Cordelia held the dagger to eye level—it was clearly crafted of sheer skill. Perfectly-shaped emeralds glinted within the hilt of entwined gold-and-silver vines—and upon the blade were carved several short verses in the M'arroc tongue.

Kashya crossed her arms—then twirled a ruby-and-diamond ring about her index finger. "Don't _offer_ it to him. Threaten him with it."

* * *

She could barely keep from smirking even as she crossed the encampment to the merchant's caravan-clearing. He sat upon his stool, puffing contentedly upon a pipe. Even as the sorceress entered his domain, he smirked—then got to his feet, brushing pipeweed from his tunic.

"Returned, have you?" He spoke mildly—with absolutely no remorse in his voice.

Cordelia thinned her lips. She no longer felt amused. "Five thousand gold pieces, as promised." She threw the sack of gold onto his stool—it fell open to reveal the golden trove within. "Now give me the antidote."

The merchant smirked—and the sorceress thought she could see a glint of glee in his greed-filled eyes. "I'm afraid the price has increased, little lass. Ten thousand gold pieces." He took another puff of his pipe, then yawned.

The sorceress narrowed her eyes; and then took a step towards him. "You, Gheed, are naught but a damned pig. Give me the antidote—_now_."

"Do you attempt to frighten me, young sorceress?" The merchant blinked, as though mildly interested. "Kashya would have been much better suited for it. You are far too innocent to attempt much of the sort."

Cordelia thinned her lips—then drew the blade from her belt. She turned the blade over in her palm; then shifted her gaze to the merchant, and was glad to see that he had begun to look uncomfortable. "Your blood is not worth my soul." She began. "If you're not going to live up to your end of the bargain—" She stooped—then scooped the sack of gold into her arms.

He frowned—and she could see that he was beginning to worry. "Now there, lass—"

"—Hrm?" The sorceress straightened, then blinked placidly towards the other. "If you do not wish to make the sale, I shan't attempt to _force_ you."

"But—" The merchant was sputtering now—shades of crimson were beginning to creep into his cheeks.

Cordelia tilted her head gently—then began to stride quite slowly away. "It's quite alright. Saul won't die—see, Akara's found a different antidote. So we really don't _need_ you." She looked at him over her shoulder—and offered him what she knew to be a sweet, yet coy smile. "Good-bye, Gheed."

She'd barely taken five steps, however, when the merchant cried out—"Alright, fine! I'll take the five thousand!"

The sorceress choked back an amused chuckle; and without quite turning to face him, said, "Akara asks for naught."

"Fine! I'll give it to you for three thousand!"

"No, thank you." Her voice was almost musical as she took yet another step; any second now, he would give in.

"_One thousand!_"

"Aha." Cordelia smirked to herself—then returned, reluctantly, to the merchant's side. "Oh, _fine_." She sighed.

Several minutes later, the sorceress left the clearing, the antidote tucked safely away within her belt and the gold slung easily over her shoulder. She whistled as she walked—Gheed would, no doubt, be furious when he discovered the actual truth.

For now—Saul would be just fine.

* * *

"The circlet. It's rather pretty."

It had been hours since they'd acquired the antidote—the sun glowed warm in the skies; it was near mid-day. Akara had long begun her healing—and she fully expected Saul to awaken before nightfall.

There had been nothing left to do, save for the dividing of the treasure.

They sat across one another in Akara's clearing. They'd long since divided the gold, silver, gems and jewels—it was now the great mound of jewelry and gowns that sat in between them. Charsi and Liene had joined them—and the four women had laughed in amusement at the sorceress's treatment of Gheed; laughter _was_ hard to come by.

It was, as they said in between chuckles and snickers, an amazing feat—to indirectly rob such a man of his gold.

Cordelia chuckled softly—then reached across the pile to take a hold of the circlet; it was wrought of gold and silver, meticulously twisted and bedecked with delicately cut topaz-and-diamond roses to form a sort of woodland crown. She placed it atop her head—then giggled. For all the darkness and doom within the realms, the sorceress rather enjoyed the beauty of gowns and jewelry. She'd slipped a simple silver ring, topped with a minute emerald upon her middle finger—the jade hue of the roughly-hewn gem matched her staff head-piece well.

Kashya rolled her eyes—but offered a small smile. "Those vambraces over there." She held her hand out; and Liene handed her the set of gold-plated wrist-guards.

"What time do you think he'll awaken?" Charsi wrinkled her nose slightly—she, alone had remained rather dismal throughout the treasure-sorting. Cordelia had supposed it was because she was worried.

"I wouldn't worry, Charsi." Cordelia bit her lower lip, scratching her nose for several long seconds. Then, holding her arms out—"Liene, hand me that gown. The green one with the russet-brocade."

Liene chuckled—then shook her head. "I don't suppose you'll _wear_ such a thing into battle?"

"Hardly." The sorceress sighed; she ran a finger delicately along the jade silk—then quirked a tiny smile. "But I suppose I can find sometime to wear these." She waved a hand over the pile of richly-embroidered silks and satins by her side, and then, with rather a defensive frown—"Besides, I never had gowns as a child."

The Captain chuckled—then reached over to take a hold of a handsomely-crafted set of silver plate-mail. "Mine."

They divided the rest of the treasure in such a fashion; the sorceress chose all forms of delicate jewelry, whilst the Captain chose armour and somesuch items of practical use and great worth. The sun had begun to set by the time they were quite done. Charsi had returned to her smithy—and Liene had, likewise, returned to her duties.

Cordelia stretched her arms over her head—then yawned. A great pile of bejewelled silks and satins lay within the rosewood chest beside her, carefully folded to avoid the creasing of the materials. Within this chest, also, rested the jewelry—string after string of ivory pearls glowed amidst pendants, bracelets, necklaces and circlets of gold and silver. And yet another chest—of bronze and ebon-steel, lay open upon her other side—this one had been filled with coins of every imaginable value.

"Do you feel—" She began, rather uncomfortably. An odd sort of emotion had begun to settle deep within her chest—she was not quite used to owning such vast amounts of treasure. "—as if this treasure is beginning to weigh upon you?"

The Captain bit her lip—then nodded, if only just a touch. The excitement had long since worn off for her—she felt quite bored by now. "Keep it, though. It may yet be useful for you."

Cordelia sighed, wrinkling her nose as she shut the lid of the rosewood chest. "I know. But it's too much."

"I should have thought that _you_, of all people, would be used to such finery." Kashya gave the sorceress a little smile—then pushed herself to her feet. "Were things not so within the Medjai-Kiel?"

Cordelia chuckled briefly. "I—I suppose so." She murmured. And then, getting to her feet—"I guess I didn't think that the memory of home would catch up with me quite so soon." She did not give the rogue the chance to question her words, smiling instead and motioning towards the entrance of Akara's tent. "I think Saul should be awake by now."

Kashya frowned at her for several long seconds—and then, shrugging mildly, said, "I suppose. Can I go to him first?"

"You've probably heard this before—" Cordelia chuckled faintly. "—but follow your heart."

The Captain lifted a crimson brow. "I suppose that's you saying yes?"

"Mm—hmm." The sorceress nodded once, though she quirked an amused smile. "Go on."

And, with rather a grateful smile, the rogue nodded; then disappeared into the darkened space of her sister's tent.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Alright, you guys! Here's another chapter—It's got a rather lighter feel to it, compared to the other chapters. But I decided that our girls needed some good ol' fun. And what better fun can there be than giggling over gowns and jewelry?

And, I actually had this chapter ready about five days ago. I just thought I'd hold it hostage so you guys would review. Apparently, none of you want to. And yes, I am pouting.

Again, with the pronounciations!

**Adis arquech **is pronounced Ahd-is ar-quiche.

Many thanks to: **Ophelion** and **Bien**! You have no idea how bright-cheerful-happy I get when I received your reviews. They mean the world to me. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Thanks again, and don't forget to R and R for this chapter! (Pretty please with sugar on top?) This is Emmy signing off for now!


	11. Chapter 10: Springtime Blues

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* * *

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**Chapter 10: Springtime Blues**

* * *

_The sounds of nature echoed far and wide about him—the birds cried their songs to the heavens, as the winds whispered a soft, bell-like lullaby. The melody brought a soothing sort of calm; and he felt as if naught could hurt him within Nature's embrace._

_He was home._

_He smiled—then stretched, noting absently that the trees—tall trees, oaks and pines, had spread their branches out above the clearing in which he lay. The leafy greens cast about a sweet, warming scent. And amidst these comforts, the sun—ah, the sun! It shone with a magnanimous brilliance, and it illuminated every rabbit's hole, and every bird's nest._

_Such were the wonders of Scosglen._

_When had he returned home?_

_For a moment or two, the druid wondered—then abandoned the question. Deep within the wonders of his home, he found that he no longer cared._

_Several long seconds—they seemed like days, passed. And yet, the druid could feel his heart longing for her—_

—_ah , but who was she?_

_Try as he might to surpress the curiousity within him, he found that he simply could not. He tried—oh heavens, he tried, to keep her from his head; how he wished he could push his not-so-distant reality away._

_The face kept appearing within his mind's eye. A fair young lady—graced with firestorm hair, and eyes of brightest blue._

_He pushed the face from his mind, releasing a rather irritable grunt. She would not take him from his home; his one true love. She would not be the cause of his leaving home—he would not allow it._

_And yet, even as he grumbled faintly under his breath—he knew his conscience to lie. He wanted to see that face, to awaken from his dream for just a glimpse of her laughing lips—_

_And so, he bid a solemn farewell to his home—promised to, someday, return; and surrendered himself to the ever-encompassing light._

* * *

It was twilight—or perhaps _just past_ twilight. He could sense that it was so; the birds had ceased to sing, and a chilly night breeze had begun to blow.

A dream.

Saul stirred slightly—then crooked the faintest of smiles. The serenity of Scosglen seemed not to have left his being. He lay still for several long seconds—for the memories of his home brought joy to his heart.

It was several seconds longer when he'd finally decided to open his eyes—perhaps it was time to greet the realities of the world.

Crimson locks.

"Cordelia—" The smile had barely had time to form upon his lips, before his vision chose to return. "—oh."

The rogue Captain scowled slightly—then shook her head. "I'm afraid not."

"Sorry." The druid coughed. Truth be told, he was rather shocked to find the Captain by his side. She'd never seemed to care, before. He crooked the smile again. "How long have I slept?"

"Two days." She said, dryly—and with a faint grimace, Saul saw that she'd taken his recognition error as a personal insult.

He decided to try again—she was, after all, by his bed. Surely she wouldn't allow her temper to get the better of her? "Have I missed anything interesting?"

"Nothing at all." The Captain said. Then, with a languid toss of her crimson hair—"Are you feeling better?"

He nodded quickly—and then, not wanting to seem at a loss for words, said, "Much better. Thank you." He paused, and cleared his throat. "—Incidentally, is Gheed still alive?"

For a moment or two, Saul thought he'd caught a flash of a smile flicker across the rogue's face. She nodded. "Unfortunately."

He chuckled vaguely, nodding for several long moments—he had nothing to say. Kashya seemed to sense his discomfort; for with a slight inclinition of her head, she straightened, and cleared her throat.

"Well, I'll—" She began, stiffly. "—leave you be, then."

Saul smiled slightly—then nodded. "Thank you."

She stared at him for several long moments, and he began to wonder if he'd hit yet another nerve. She seemed rather tetchy; and he did not much fancy the thought of angering the Captain so early in his recovery. For a moment or two, a flash of disappointment reverberated within her teal orbs—but her expression did not change.

With yet another stiff nod, the Captain exited the tent.

He sat silent upon his futon—a small frown made its way slowly onto his still-weary visage. Kashya's demeanor was somewhat different; and though he could not quite put his finger on it, Saul did not think it a good change at all. He much preferred the cold, temperamental woman he'd come to regard as an equal.

As a friend.

Heaving a small sigh, he lifted a hand to rub gently at the back of his head. Women were so difficult to understand, at the very best of times.

"What in the name of Horazon did you do to her?"

Another auburn head had begun to make itself seen within the tent—and it was one he was glad to see. He grinned. "Cordelia!"

The sorceress chuckled faintly, shaking her head even as she made her way towards him. He was glad to see that her smile was true. "Hello there." She wrinkled her nose slightly—then leaned forward to kiss him gently on the forehead. "I'm glad to see you too."

For a moment or two, he remained still; shocked into silence by the simplicity of one such kiss. Then, he smiled—and pushed himself into a proper seating position. "I mistook Kashya for you." He rubbed sheepishly at the back of his head. "Did she look offended when she left?"

To his surprise, Cordelia simply smiled—a rather small, wry one. "Well—" She began; her slow, low volumes told him that she was thinking her words over. "—just a little." She paused, her brows knitted closely together. "Honestly, Saul. We don't look alike at all, Kashya and me."

Saul released a low, amused chuckle. "I wasn't properly awake—and her hair colour is almost similar to yours."

"Mine is a lighter shade." Cordelia wrinkled her nose again, tossing her auburn curls over her shoulder—as if to place emphasis upon her words.

"I'll be sure to remember that the next time I awaken from near death." Saul smirked. "Now, Cordelia dear, I find myself in a bit of a pickle here. I can hardly remember what happened in Tristram—" Here, he paused, and scratched briefly upon his nose. "Would you care to remind me?"

The sorceress sighed softly, as though exasperated. And yet, even as she settled herself comfortably upon the ground beside his bedding, she grinned. "I don't remember much, myself."

Saul rubbed at the back of his head. "Just tell me everything you remember."

Cordelia threw him a rather vague smile. "I've heard stories of those of your walk—of how your kinsmen bend their bones and change their appearances." She said. Her voice was just a touch lower now; though she spoke her next words with rather a sly grin. "You look very nice with fur."

He gave her a half-hearted scowl. That sounded like quite the opening line of a good, long tale.

Or _tail_, as it were.

* * *

Spring seemed to arrive with a great many bursts of fresh, new sunlight. All life seemed rejuvenated—if not renewed, within the vast expanse of good, green earth surrounding the Rogue Encampment. The skies were a constant—fluffy clouds of gold and white amidst the never-ending blues. The sun shone as it once did—brightly, bringing with it a warm sort of radiance.

At first, all had appeared well. The rogues had begun to hope—a luxury long sacrificed in the face of danger and darkness. Perhaps they would live to see the end of the dark reign. Perhaps, perhaps—it was all but a cumbersome question which bore no answer.

And then came the rain.

The crystalline droplets poured from the skies—and in a matter of mere days, the long-awaited spring was over. The birds ceased to sing and the flowers hid their blooms.

And thus the world returned to its perpetual state of gloom.

Saul stood by the gently-flickering embers of the bonfire. The silence that encompassed the night-darkened encampment was almost deafening. He could see but few others about the clearing—two younger rogues who sat in a corner, deep in discussion, and Warriv; who sat upon a boulder, a leather-bound book propped open upon his knees.

For a moment or two, the druid watched the fledgling flames amidst the pieces of burnt charcoal—they flickered to and fro, glowing brilliantly, then fading away. The flames reminded him of the weather—undetermined and undecided.

With a low, heavy sigh, Saul crossed his arms. He'd felt constricted lately—short of breath, as if the winds were choking the very life from his lungs.

And he quite understood why.

Chaos had wrought destruction upon Nature—she quavered, and trembled with fear, now. The faded spring was but a desperate reminder; for Nature greatly loved the season of flowers and bloom. But the need was there—men must be reminded of the great evil upon them.

Men must destroy the great evil—if only to restore balance to the Sanctuary.

_Are you quite alright?_

Saul lifted his head slightly—then smiled, as the jade-eyed hawk landed upon his shoulder. He nodded briefly, and then reached out to stroke absently at her feathers.

_You are looking quite pale._ The bird stared dubiously at him for several long moments.

The druid chuckled vaguely. "And you're looking quite brown. Did you stay under the sun too long?"

Ceres clicked her beak, then pecked him indignantly.

"Augh!" Saul scowled, rubbing tenderly at the small crimson mark upon his ear. "Most birds don't do that." He grumbled.

_Most birds don't offer advice, aid, and companionship._ She clicked her beak again, as though emphasizing her point.

He narrowed his eyes at her, then sighed, simply choosing to remain silent.

She watched him for several long moments, then rustled her tail feathers with an air of impatience. _Are you going to tell me about that which is bothering you?_

Saul found himself at a loss—he did not quite know how to put his problems into words. Then, wrinkling his nose, he muttered, "I feel—" He paused briefly. "—trapped."

Ceres blinked placidly at him, her leathery eyelids opening and closing in fluid movements. _I see._

"I feel as if a great darkness is approaching. The storm that makes itself seen at the end of every spring." Saul frowned, rubbing at the back of his head. "And spring has ended—before its due time." He paused. "I don't rightly know what is wrong, Ceres—but _something_ is wrong. Something is very gravely wrong."

She shifted her footing rather uncomfortably, rustling her wing-feathers slightly. _The way you are feeling now, druid—that encompassing helplessness is what my kin feels; what we have felt since the dawn of evil upon our Sanctuary._

"I'm not going to sit about and do nothing, if that's what you're implying." He muttered out of the corner of his mouth. The young rogues were beginning to look towards him—he'd supposed he looked rather odd. Not many spoke to hawks.

Ceres seemed to have noticed their staring—she returned their gazes with one of imperious haughtiness. _Such children. You'd think they'd never happened across those of Nature._

Saul allowed himself a stiff chuckle, shaking his head just a touch as he began to stride away. "Come, now. There's no need to get snippy."

They made their way to the edge of camp—to the edge of the Adura river. A lone rogue stood upon the bridge—she nodded briefly towards the druid in greeting, then returned her gaze to the vast emptiness of the darkened moor.

_There's a sensible young woman. Ask no questions and bother no-one._ Ceres clicked her beak in approval.

"Oh, stop it." He grunted, settling himself down onto the ground beside the river.

She flapped her wings lazily, and then came to land upon the riverbank beside him. _What will you do, druid?_

Saul inhaled deeply—for a moment or two, he said nothing. Then, he picked a pebble from the ground, and, after yet another moment, tossed it into the river. "The siege of Entsteig began with the Tamoe Monastery." He began. "I believe—that whatever fests within the monastery _can_ be destroyed."

_And? Will you be the one to destroy that evil?_

He shrugged. "_That_ future is unclear to me."

The hawk watched him stiffly. Then, cocking her head slightly to a side, she rubbed her beak affectionattely against his arm. _I have faith in you, druid._

Saul allowed the tiniest of smiles to grace his lips. "Am I to understand that you will stay with me, then?"

_To the death._

They sat in serene silence for quite some time—the soft, rushing rapids of the Adura calmed them in ways both known and unknown to them. Nature had such ways of soothing her children—and those who did not see it were blind to all that were good and green in the realms. The moon arose within the dark, star-lit skies; they, too, flickered lifelessly within the prussian-blue blackground, like little candles in hurricane winds.

By the by, the rogue-on-duty left her post—and another came in her place. By the time the sun made its presence known, Ceres had taken flight; she, too, had business of her own to attend to.

Dawn descended upon the Sanctuary in faint shafts of golden light—for the accursed clouds of grey and ebon spangled the skies; they blocked the sun from view. Such was the weather of Entsteig in days of darkness.

"Didn't you sleep?" Cordelia had clearly just arisen—her crimson locks fell in dishevelled waves over her chest and waist, and she was rubbing at her eyes. She had dressed—her simple white undershirt flowed loose over her pantaloons.

Saul chuckled quietly, then turned around to face his new companion. She yawned, and he smirked slightly. "Why aren't you wearing one of your beautiful collection of gem-encrusted silks?"

Cordelia scowled, then bent over the edge of the river. "Go on. I should've expected that you would tease me so." She cupped some water in her hands and splashed it over her face. "If it helps, I can't imagine _why_ I chose the gowns over practical armour, either. It's quite unnerving really, that my mind can make decisions on its own without my actual consent."

"You don't like your silks and velvets anymore?" Saul grinned. A faint, mischievious glint hovered within his grey orbs. "I mean, I know they're actually _really_ old, regardless of how new they _look_—and I know that they were once worn by that self-obsessed countess. But surely, that is no reason to reject such beauteous finery!"

Cordelia grumbled faintly under her breath—then, in one swift movement, turned around and flung a cupped handful of icy-cold water at him. "If you like them so much, _you_ can wear them."

Saul found himself laughing aloud—he got to his feet, and made his way towards the sorceress. "There now, you know I'm only teasing." He grinned, then leaned over the water himself. "You'd look better in them. I haven't the right body for such gowns."

"You haven't the right _gender_ for _all_ gowns, you fool…"

* * *

The encampment was abuzz with activity by the time they deemed it necessary to return. Many of the rogues were, by now, awakened—they strode about the camp with purposeful gaits, some weary-limbed, and some fresh-faced. Kashya stood in her corner, her expression grim—and though the druid waved a hand in greeting, she barely responded.

Saul found himself frowning in slight apprehension. Now that he'd begun to pay attention, he could see that many faces were beset with anxiety. Even Liene, who usually bore little, to no fear in her eyes seemed distant—somewhat aloof. She, alone, managed the weakest of smiles, before disappearing beyond the gates to the Blood Moor.

He leaned over towards Cordelia. "Do you get the feeling that something isn't quite right today?" He muttered quietly. "The rogues are usually solemn, but they seem far worse for wear today."

The sorceress nodded stiffly. "I noticed. Perhaps we should ask Akara—" She muttered.

Saul crossed his arms. "—we probably should. But not right now." He made a random motion towards Akara's tent-clearing.

The High Priestess stood by the bent figure of Deckard Cain—her expression did not differ much from that of her rogue sisters. She looked weary; and her ashen face seemed, somehow, as if it were more lined—more aged. They spoke in low, hushed tones; and every once in a while, Akara would shake her head, as though greatly distressed.

She'd caught Saul's eye for half a second—and he'd thought he could see the faint, wavering flame of despair within her ebon eyes. But she'd shook her head slightly—then returned her attention to the Horadrim mage before her.

"Come. Let's go find Charsi." Saul held a hand out towards Cordelia. "She might be able to tell us of this sudden change in morale."

They'd found Charsi pounding heavily upon a glowing piece of metal when they'd made their way towards her tent. She held rather an irate expression within her face—a stark contrast against the other rogues' grim demeanors.

"What?" She muttered grumpily, without quite bothering to look up. When she did, her expression softened somewhat—though she did not smile.

Saul cleared his throat quietly; to see Charsi in such a manner was a surprise, indeed. He'd never seen her angry. "We just wanted to talk to you."

The blonde woman muttered darkly under her breath—then straightened, wiping some soot from her brow. She gazed expectantly from Saul, to Cordelia, who blinked several times and bit her lower lip in shocked silence. "Well?"

Saul frowned slightly. "Are you quite alright, Charsi?" He tilted his head slightly, then moved to her side. "You seem troubled."

"Do I _look_ alright to you?" Charsi snapped. She whipped her hammer from beside her anvil—then resumed her pounding of the now-flattened piece of armour. "You would _think_—" She grunted, punctuating her words with the ringing clang of metal against metal. "—that _they_ would have given up by now. But no—" Here, she paused once more, raising the hammer with rather an angry growl. "—the both of you _had_ to go and rescue that _old coot_."

Cordelia blinked several times—she looked rather confused at the smith's words, though she hid her concern beneath the solemn, somber façade of her face. She said naught, choosing, instead, to stand in silence in her corner, her hands folded primly over her abdomen.

Saul placed a gentle hand upon Charsi's shoulder. "Come, now. You can't expect me to understand all that." He said. "What's really wrong?"

Charsi threw her hands in the air, her hammer coming to land upon her anvil with a great, resounding _pang_. "Deckard Cain wants you—YOU, to go and kill that—that _she-demon_ hounding the monastery! That's what's wrong!" She shrieked.

Saul blinked several times, his eyes widening ever so slightly. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Cordelia throw him a bewildered look—and he shook his head. The sorceress nodded briefly, then motioned towards the rogues' sleeping tent, before slipping silently away. She, too, seemed perturbed at this rather new side of the cheerful smith.

"Alright, slow down. Charsi, slow down." He murmured, reaching out to draw her into his arms. "Calm down. Slow down."

It took him all by surprise—for, the next second, his headstrong cousin; one who never cried for any reason fell into his arms and began to sob. Saul patted gently upon his cousin's heaving back—he felt almost as if the world would collapse. The idea of his brave cousin weeping brought a new meaning to things; perhaps, perhaps, things _were_ as bad as they seemed to be.

"Hush, cousin." He whispered gently. "It's going to be quite alright."

She made a noise through her nose—and it sounded as if it were half an angry cat, and half a moose. When she lifted her tear-stained face once more, he could see the fire within her deep, sea-coloured eyes. "You don't know that." She said—and beneath the choked cadence of her voice came accusation. "You don't know." She repeated.

Saul lifted a brow; then smiled, shaking his head. "Of course I know." He half wished he would believe his own words—but he saw no reason to further aggravate his cousin. "Your cousin is an able warrior. You have no cause to fear for him."

"Oh, stop it!" Charsi cried, slamming her fists into his chest. "Stop acting like it's going to be alright. It's not, and you know it." She pulled away from him, her eyes flashing with an odd sort of emotion. "You act all cheerful—all nonchalant, and you scoff the demons in the wilds. Can't you _see_, Saul? The very existance of the Sanctuary is threatened—we shall all perish if the evil is not destroyed. It is not a game!" Here, her voice broke off—and the tears, once more, began to fall from her eyes. "How do you remain in good spirits? _How?_"

Saul found himself silenced for several long moments. The pounding within his chest did not ache him—no, that which hurt him were his cousin's words. Did she think him thus nonchalant? Thus shallow, to remain in joy when all about him grieved the end of spring?

When he spoke, it was in an oddly low murmer—and it did not quite sound like him at all. "I am sorry you think of me as such." He began, his voice a quiet baritone. "I had thought—of all the people within the realms, that _you_ would understand."

She choked back a sob, though her chest continued to rise and fall in her almost-breathless state. "Sometimes, it just feels as if you don't care whether you live or die. It feels as if you don't care whether _we_ survive this massacre."

Saul merely gazed at her—he did not quite know what to say.

The truth, and the whole truth was that the druid felt it somewhat easier to face the darkness of the realms by remaining as he were—glad of heart and bright of spirit. He did not think it prudent to parade the effect of darkness—nor did he think it wise. Few within the encampment knew the true depth of the druid's thoughts—the true depth of his pride. He detested weakness, choosing instead to dread the darkness in solemn secrecy. After all, what good would public fear bring the others of light? Surely, it would make him seem more human, somehow—and yet, it would bring no hope, as was greatly needed in such times.

Finally, he found his voice once more. "You mayn't understand my being, cousin." He murmured, and his voice was low. "But know that I do _want_ care. I _want_ many things for my future—I want to marry, and I want to have babies. But these things are best abandoned in light of such times. I may not _live_ to see the end of such times. Therefore, it does not do to care _too much_—or to show too often what I feel." He paused, and though he did not look at her, he knew she was listening. "I don't want to be disappointed when I die, cousin—and that is precisely how I should feel if I were to wear my heart upon my sleeve."

When at last he lifted his solemn grey gaze to meet that of his cousins, he found her starry-eyed, and stiff-backed. She had ceased to weep, though she seemed less than ready to smile.

"I don't want you to die." She murmured—and it was with rather a defeated air that she lowered her arms to her sides.

Saul attempted to smile, but found that he simply could not. Instead—"I won't die." He said.

Charsi made a movement that may have been a nod—then turned her back to him, reaching out to take a hold of her hammer. "If there is anyone in the realms who can reverse this accursed spring, I believe—I believe you can." She paused, biting down upon her lower lip. "Just—please promise me that you won't die?"

The smile that broke his lips was, this time, rather a true one. He leaned over to kiss the smith gently on the cheek. "I can't promise you that. I'm sorry." Then, taking a step back, "But I _can_ promise that I will not yield my life without a fight—if _I_ must fall, _they_ will fall with me."

Charsi thinned her lips slightly—then slammed her hammer onto the now-cooled piece of metal. It made an uncomfortably loud, ringing sound within the air.

And it was with rather a sad smile, that the druid made his way from his cousin—and at the very least, he knew now that she would understand the depths of his heart.

The accursed spring would _have_ to be reversed—by all means necessary.

* * *

**Author's note:** Woohoo! Here's another chapter! I know it's a little anti-climatic, after all those quest-rich fighting scenes, but I just thought that Charsi and Saul deserved some family time. Also, I'd thought of bringing them all the way to the monastery gates in this chapter, but that seemed to be moving along a little too quickly for my tastes. This way, I get to savor the emotions of my darlings, and I get to drag it out another chapter!

As usual, thanks go out to **Ophelion**, **ArkangelsWrath **and** LoneWolf69sg** for the reviews! **Oph**, I'm glad you're loving Cordy. I've had a hard time trying to get her into character, but its been worth every bit of it. I love her too! .

That's all for now, people—please don't forget to drop me a review for this chapter! Otherwise, I get all cranky, and ya'll don't like cranky Emmy. Seriously.

Haha, kidding. Signing off for now!


	12. Chapter 11: Highland Roses

* * *

**Chapter 11: Highland Roses**

* * *

The sun had not yet reached its zenith when Saul found himself in the presence of the encampment elders—the High Priestess of the Sisterhood, and the Last Mage of the Horadrim. He had expected their company—and it was with rather a benign smile that he'd inclined his head in polite greeting towards the both of them.

He had, hitherto, stood in silence before the bonfire—he'd crossed his arms stiffly over his chest, and his brows were furrowed deep in thought. Cordelia had known better than to bother him in such times, and she had not made herself visible to him since his return from Charsi's smithy. He rather missed her presence.

When the Priestess and the Mage had begun to make their way towards him, Saul had lifted his gaze—and he'd known, from that moment onwards, that which they expected of him. He would _have_ to undertake the quests that would lead to the undoing of the evils within the Tamoe Monastery—and to the freedom of the Sisterhood.

"Greetings, Master Vyreant." The last of the Horadrim spoke first—and his voice was that of a weary old man's. For a moment or two, the druid thought he could hear but one quality within the aged, raspy cadence—defeat. "I do believe that we have not been properly introduced yet."

He nodded slightly. "Well met, Deckard Cain." Then, turning to regard the High Priestess—"Akara. Good morning."

Akara nodded briefly—then clasped her hands together. And though she chose to remain silent, she watched the druid with rather an intent gaze.

"Aye, well met." Deckard Cain inclined his head gently in greeting. He cleared his throat; and he seemed rather uncomfortable.

But mere seconds had passed; and already, they seemed upon the verge of dispersing, at the lack of good conversation. And yet in his heart, Saul knew that such company would bear grave tidings. Already, he knew that which they sought to speak of—and he supposed that they did not know how to begin.

Saul bit down gently upon his lower lip—he was beginning to wish that the elders would deign to speak. Finally, with rather a bit of a hopeful voice—"Nice weather today." He began, awkwardly.

Half a second later, he cursed inwardly at his foolish choice of words; for the hursh, rumbling echoes of thunder reverberated through the sky. A storm was nigh.

Deckard Cain seemed to sense his discomfort—he cleared his throat, and offered a somewhat small and diminished smile. "I suppose we shan't beat around the bush, Master Vyreant." He began; and Saul noted absently that his voice had gained yet another quality—restlessness. "We now tread upon a darkened path. Every step of ours will bring us closer to our doom. _We_—yes, I speak of _all_ of us—are on borrowed time. For there will come a day when all will cease to exist; and that day soon approaches, in the shades of the darkness penetrating our Sanctuary. Do you understand?"

Saul nodded simply. And then, sounding much harsher than he meant to—"That much, I have gathered. I have not spent the last few months idle—the darkness has not gone unnoticed." He tensed his shoulders slightly. "But that is not what you wish to speak to me of."

At those words, Akara stiffened—and though her expression showed naught but passive sentiments, her ebon eyes darkened; and yet not in hue, but in depth. She seemed weary, as though the truth weighed heavily upon her shoulders.

She placed a gentle, motherly hand upon Saul's shoulder. "We have news, Saul. And we are going to tell you everything. I ask only that you remain patient—and I ask this, knowing fully well that patience is a virtue you lack." She gave him a crooked smile that did not reach her eyes.

The druid found himself blinking in silence at the High Priestess—then, with something of a faint grin upon his face, he nodded. It was quite a sudden desire of his to prove her theory of his patience wrong.

"Now—" She began, rather stiffly. "—you may have gathered that the forces of hell have begun to pour into the innermost sanctums of our monastery. I can only suppose that Charsi has kept you well informed?" At this, she gave him a look of enquiry—and he nodded his agreement. "Throughout the duration of this—_accursed_ spring, we, that is to say, Deckard Cain and myself, have observed the fading aura of all that is good within these realms. And we have unearthed, at last, the truth beneath the darkness." Here, she paused, and she was rather pale.

Deckard Cain seemed to have taken her silence for his cue to speak—he caught the druid's attention with a softened cough. "You may have begun to wonder, as of late, of the _source_ of such vulgarities within our lands." He said. "We have our theories, which go so far unproven—save for studied guesses. But studied guesses are about as best as we _can_ do, for now."

Saul nodded once—a sign for the elder man to continue his speech.

"It has come, now, to our final guess—our final arrow, and our final weapon against the darkness. We know now that which they have unleashed upon us." Deckard Cain said. His grip of his staff seemed to tighten somewhat—and he inhaled sharply, before speaking once more. "It is the demoness Andariel who makes her lair within the Tamoe Monastery."

There was rather an awkward pause, in which Akara further paled; and in complete contrast against the High Priestess, Deckard Cain had turned a faint shade of green. Saul, however, chose simply to blink placidly.

_He'd somewhat expected such news._

And it was with rather a grim smile, that he'd nodded to show acceptance of the news.

Akara stared dubiously at him—she seemed unnerved by his lack of response to this rather new turn of events. Several times he'd caught her frowning; but she'd hastily returned her face to its passive demeanor. Deckard Cain was little more accepting of his silence—the old man stood, immobile, choosing simply to watch the druid with a solemnity beyond even _his_ years.

"Well?" The High Priestess said, at last. She seemed terse now—and it was with rather a stiff arm that she'd straightened the folds of her hood. "What say you to that?"

Saul blinked once. "Oh, am I allowed to speak, now?" He could hardly resist the urge to smile—but he could not, for Akara had shot him a look most reminiscent of her Captain. He cleared his throat—then nodded with as much dignity as he could gather from within his being. "I understood that which you have said. Both of you."

"And?" Akara pressed.

"You want me—" Saul cleared his throat lightly, then clasped his hands together. "—to venture into the depths of the monastery, to find the demoness. And that, as common sense would dictate, would lead to the salvation of the sisterhood." He crooked a tiny smile. "Was that what you wished to tell me?"

The High Priestess exhaled—and for a moment or two, it seemed as if she'd lost all ability to speak. And yet, half a second later, she'd nodded; and it was true that it was a minute movement—and yet, the depth of her eyes had begun to bear a new sort of light. It both mystified, and frightened the druid—he had not thought the revered Priestess capable of such fear.

"That would be a truly valiant deed, yes." Deckard Cain said. "You must forgive my blunt words, Master Vyreant. _But we have no time_. And in an era such as this—" He paused, lifting a hand to scratch gently upon his left cheek. "—we need such heroes as fate is disposed to gift us with."

Then, in all but a fleeting second, the quality within the old mage's voice was unearthed—it was not fear, nor was it despair.

It was _hope._

Saul chuckled softly as he rubbed at the back of his head. "I don't—consider myself a hero. But if it is your will that I cleanse the monastery—then I shall." He turned towards Akara—then sank gallantly onto one knee. "With your leave, High Priestess."

Akara's frown deepened further, if that were possible. She stared at him for several long seconds—and he did not move. And then, almost as if she were a mother blessing her child, she placed her hand upon his head, and whispered—"May bright sun keep the twilight shadows from you, o' brave Saul."

He rose to his feet, and smiled. Somehow, it gave him courage—to know that others hoped, still, for the renewal of their lives.

Yes, it was but _hope_ that would aid him well.

* * *

"The demoness Andariel—?"

Saul could barely contain the smirk of faint amusement upon his face—he nodded once, and his manner was that of one resigned to what destiny held in store for him. "That would be the one."

The sorceress stared open-mouthed at him for several long seconds, and she said naught; though she blinked a great many times. Then, in a voice both amazed and anxious—"The maiden of anguish; birthed within the very fires of Hell's crimson river?" She paused—and the colour seemed all but diminished from within her ashen face. "That one?"

Saul nodded once. "Yes, that would be the one." He repeated—and for half a second, he thought he could see a flicker of fear in her pallid blues. And though worry had begun to settle itself upon his nerves, he smiled. "You needn't come _with_ me, you know."

Cordelia frowned slightly, and defiance overtook fear as she wrinkled her nose—then shook her head. "Don't be stupid." She grumbled. "I am not about to let you waltz into her lair with naught but your life for company. And there's a good chance you'd lose that _one_ companion, if you were to go alone."

"I didn't expect that you would. Still—" Saul spoke quietly—and he watched his companion with solemn eyes. "—I rather wish that you would choose to remain. It is a dangerous quest. The monastery will not be retaken easily."

She gave him a look both exasperated and scornful—and it reminded him very much of the fiery spirit within his mother. The very thought made him smile. "I don't suppose living in such an age is easy." She said. "The golden days of peace and freedom are long gone, and we have to do what we can in times such as these."

Saul chuckled softly, nodding as he lifted a hand to rub at the back of his head. "Cain and Akara seem to think that—" Here, he paused, wrinkling his nose slightly. "—that I am, one way or another, some form of a hero."

He was surprised to find that the sorceress did not laugh—in fact, she'd hardly smiled at the thought. She merely looked thoughtful as she studied him solemnly; and almost as if it were through her subconscious mind, she twirled a single lock of crimson hair about her index finger. When she spoke, it was in low, softened tones—and her words were spoken slowly, as though she were thinking them over.

"You don't believe you're a hero?"

He blinked.

It _was_ true that he'd chosen his walk in life—to fight the darkness, regardless of the bitterness of battle, and the constant shadow of death looming over his shoulders. And yet, it had never truly occurred to him that he might be called _hero_.

He shrugged—then smiled rather a wry smile. "To be honest, Cordy—_that_ thought has never crossed my mind. I don't _expect_ to come away from this war alive—and yet I may. And if I do, I don't expect that I should be named hero of my people. I don't want such honour."

She wrinkled her nose, and her eyes narrowed somewhat—but it was with rather a gentle sigh that she'd leaned over, and placed her head upon his shoulder. "Do you think—" She paused, as though the words were hard for her to say. "—that we would survive? We have both chosen our paths—and yet our paths lead to forked ends. At one end lies death—and at the other lies the vestiges of darkness that we are to battle."

Saul took a deep breath—then exhaled. He made a face. "There isn't much of a difference between death and darkness. But you forget—there is a third path whose way remains hidden to your reasoning."

"What's that?" Cordelia lifted her head just a touch; and her eyes met his.

He chuckled. "The path which leads us to the very end of darkness—and which foretells the end of all that is evil in the Sanctuary. _That_ path will find us alive at the very finish."

She gazed at him for several short seconds, pale-blue orbs deepening with thought. She smiled. "That is, by far, the most pleasant of paths we could hope to traverse. But _you_ said you didn't expect to live."

Saul bit gently upon his lower lip—then crooked a faint smile. "For _you_, I would slay all the shadows of the Sanctuary. And you would be my _will _to live."

* * *

"For _you_, I would slay all the shadows of the Sanctuary. And you would be my _will_ to live."

Cordelia inhaled sharply. For several long moments, she stared—stared into the eyes of the druid whom she'd come to regard as something of a best friend; a brotherly figure. It was true, indeed, that he'd struck her exceedingly handsome—his words were charming, and his smiles warm. And yet, she'd never dared to think of him as anything _more_—for _more_ was a word often misused in the presence of foolish young minds. She'd seen many a good friendship ruined; all in the name of _love_.

He kept still; and though he was smiling, the grey irises of his eyes wavered ever so slightly—as though he were frightened of something. And in those moments, it seemed as if all the world had ceased to spin.

Cordelia started—then lifted her head from the druid's shoulder. She ran her fingers hastily through her hair. "Anyhow." She began—and it was in rather a desperate attempt to change the topic that she'd spoken at all. "We'd best begin to pack for tomorrow. It is going to be a long day."

She could see the hurried flash of disappointment within his eyes—though he hid it beneath the easy confidence of his smile. He chuckled. "Has your mind been made up, then? You are to come with me?"

Cordelia scowled at him. "I am coming with you, Saul, whether you choose to allow it or not."

He rolled his eyes—and with something of a faint smile, he'd nodded.

They sat in silence for several long hours. Overhead, the skies had darkened; night had fallen, and the dawn would bring with it hope anew. The stars burned ever bright—as if they could sense, from galaxies both near and far, the closeness of the end. Almost as if they, too, felt the need to end the reign of darkness.

Morning came with a burst of new light—the sun shone in prismatic beams of golds and yellows, and even the trees offered little shade from the warmth. The clouds had ceased to appear, and the skies were all but beauteous shades of blues and oranges. It was with gladenned hearts that they'd stepped onto the waypoint—fine weather, at the very least, brought about good cheer.

The marshes were empty—and utterly devoid of demonic life-form. The very aura of darkness reverberated within the grounds—it would take many a great year to _completely_ cleanse the wilderness of hell's influence. And yet, wary eyes would see the growth of flowers—gentle blossoms the colour of a pale winter morning dotting the grounds, from wall to wall. Nature had begun her restoration of the Sanctuary.

Cordelia strode silently along the path after the druid—he seemed completely at ease, for, in addition to his carefree gait, he whistled a low, merry tune. And overhead, Ceres soared—and from time to time, she would swoop down upon them, to cuff the druid playfully across the head with her outstretched wings. Cordelia found this highly amusing.

The minutes passed, in which the two made their way steadily across the marshes. The druid strode along with rather an easy pace. It was not much longer before Cordelia found herself hard-pressed to keep up with him. She frowned—a thought had only just occurred to her.

"Is there a waypoint within the Tamoe Highlands?" She reached out to poke at his shoulder.

He chuckled faintly, then shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

"In the monastery, then?" She lifted a brow—for she knew the answer to the question. She'd seen the name of the Monastery etched upon the side of the Encampment waypoint.

"Several, yes." Saul scratched mildly at the tip of his nose. He eyed her suspiciously. "Why?"

Cordelia made a face. "Then why, _by Tal Rasha_, are we _walking_ there?" Here, she paused—for she'd only just narrowly avoided tripping over a loose stone. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm a bit of a disaster on two feet."

Saul druid laughed out loud, causing the sorceress to scowl. She swung her staff at him—and he ducked the blow easily, though he ceased to chuckle afterwards. "I'm sorry!" He raised his hands in defeat, eyes twinkling in slight amusement. And yet, it was with rather an apologetic smile, and smaller strides that he'd deigned to speak once more. "—and as for using the waypoints—"

"It is one of the laws of the Sanctuary, Cordelia. One who has not journeyed by non-magical means to a certain land will not be permitted to use the waypoints' magic to enter that same land. That is to say, if you were to fancy a sight of the jewel city of Lut Gholein, you would have to travel there by non-magical means. There is, indeed, a waypoint there—but it will not recognise your spirit, nor shall it allow you passage into its keep. This is the only protection a waypoint has against darkness—but it works, and it works well. It does not allow those of shadow to penetrate the lands upon which they are built—not by their magic, at the very least."

Cordelia wrinkled her nose. "What happens if one were to attempt a forced entry, anyway?"

Saul chuckled briefly. "I wouldn't try that, if I were you. Many a good mage have lost themselves within the vast expanse of the realms and the netherrealms, foolishly thinking themselves above the magic of the waypoints. Besides, I'd much rather _walk_ into the monastery. I have been there before, but who knows what shadows occupy it now? It is safer our way."

She frowned. Then, in almost a grudging grumble—"That's true."

"Incidentally—" The druid was smiling again. "—have _you_ ever seen the jewel city?"

Cordelia bit her lip—then shook her head. "No."

_And I don't want to see it, thank you very much._

* * *

"No."

He thought he'd imagined it, but for a moment or two it seemed as if a flash—a hint of _something_, had entered into the depths of the sorceress's eyes. And yet, half a second later, it was gone—and hastily replaced with false amusement. She smiled; but it was a touch too robust a smile, and it did not reach her eyes.

Saul found himself concerned—troubled for his companion, though he did not remark upon her sudden change of heart. Other things demanded his attention—for they had come to the end of the marshes; and beneath the stony banks flowed a shallowed river.

To the druid's disgust, the rapids had been stained—tainted with the blood of humans and demons alike. The flowing waters were a dark, bubbling crimson in colour.

Cordelia, too, seemed perturbed by this most appalling of sights. A frown had etched itself upon her forehead. Several times she'd gazed into the bloody depths—only to look away again with fear in her eyes.

Saul narrowed his eyes—then took her trembling hand. "Come."

They crossed the river by means of a crumbled bridge of dark-drey stone. It was a slippery path to traverse, for moss had grown wild upon the stones; these, too, had been dyed crimson. Every several steps or so along the fallen bridge lay piles of broken corpses—the men of Tamoe had fought, and fought bravely. And yet, their eyes were widened, the ghosts of their last hours etched upon the faded irises. In death, they found no respite.

It was a true measure of how gruesome the sorceress found the river that she did not stumble at all.

The highland winds were dry and chilly, for the forces of Nature had set themselves upon those of darkness, and upon those who'd so blatantly lain to waste the goodness and greens of the wilds. The barren lands were desolate; and within even minute blades of grass rested the unholy aura of hell's shadows.

_And it was within these shadows that Nature had been corrupted._

Saul was careful to hold his anger as he walked—it pained him to see the extent to which Nature had suffered. What had once been a green wonder to behold lay now in desolate darkness—and naught was allowed to flourished within the highlands, for naught found nourishment within the earth. The water-sources had been poisoned; even the sun had fallen prey to the gloom—for it was but a dim representation of its true glory.

They had not walked long within the highlands before the piercing cries of hellspawned demons filled the air. The druid stiffened—then drew his blade from its leather sheath. He's never been one to enjoy bloodshed—but he found that he would be glad to slay _these_ demons. Those who tainted Nature, and those who filled the wilderness with shadows and darkness deserved naught but death—banishment from the Sanctuary into an eternal hell of lightning and fire.

Cordelia, too, seemed poised to kill—her eyes were narrowed in disgust and fury. In one hand, she held her staff firm, and in the other was a slender blade of entwined gold and silver. She was breathing heavily—as though the magic within her had overcome her being. Standing by her, Saul found that he could feel her mana—her life-force crackling dangerously.

The first lines of the enemy army came upon them in a sea of blue-robed rogues and yellow-skinned devilkin demons.

Saul gritted his teeth—then charged, bearing his staff aloft. Several of the yellow demon rats bared their teeth—and yet, within mere minutes, they had fallen, dead, onto the ground. Thoughtlessly, the druid wove through the horde, his staff and dagger coming into contact with body after body. Several times he felt the sharp sting of steel against his skin; yet he did not cease to battle. A feral rage had overcome him—and the sudden desire to avenge Nature's torment had brought him far from reason.

Once or twice, he'd caught sight of Cordelia within skirmishes of her own. The sorceress held an expression both terrible and beautiful within her face—her eyes were wide with unspoken fury. She wove to and from the demon-clans in the midst of crackling ice-bolts and exploding fireballs, and many fell in the wake of her vicious onslaught. She _seemed_ oblivious to all about her—and yet, a heavy line of concentration creased her brow.

A sudden, sharp pain brought the druid back to his reality—he growled, then drove the blade of his dagger through the abdomen of the corrupted rogue before him. She released a shrill, pained cry—and Saul thought he could see a weak flicker of jade within her crimson eyes. He grunted; then withdrew the dagger, wincing slightly. The blade was awash with ebon blood.

The rogue exhaled heavily—and the crimson of her eyes faded away. And then, with the weakest of smiles within her jade green orbs, she was still.

Saul was only faintly aware of the throbbing pain within his side—he grimmaced faintly, then reached downwards. He gritted his teeth—then, with one hand, tugged the offending spear-head free of its sheath of muscle and skin.

And even as the throbbing chills of pain ravaged his body, the druid tossed the accursed spear onto the ground—then bit his lower lip before charging once more into the fray of battle.

* * *

It seemed as if half of forever had passed before the twilight shadows descended upon the highlands. The skies had darkened—and the stars twinkled lifelessly upon their blanket of prussian blue. The waning moon remained hidden away beneath clouds of grey—and thus, the shimmering silver orb was eclipsed. The battle had long since ended, and the grounds were littered with the corpses of the fallen.

Cordelia strode alongside her druid companion, her staff held loosely by her side. Her footsteps were silent—and yet, they were quite loud enough to cause softened echoes within the crisp night air of the highlands. She was wearied, it was true; but the battle of the day was not quite finished.

_They had not yet made their presence known at the Monastery Gates._

The sorceress gazed solemnly towards the rather hunched figure beside her. His eyes were narrowed, and his shoulders tensed—as though he held a great ache within his being. Yet he walked without complaint. She found herself marvelling at his determination; at his strength. And when he'd turned to catch her eye, she'd smiled—and had received the faintest of smiles in return. And then, almost as if she'd meant to do it all along, she reached out—and with tentative fingers took a hold of his hand.

They made their way steadily across the grounds in such a fashion—and she was glad of it, when, at last, the great grey walls of the Tamoe Monastery loomed over them. Saul had spoken of a waypoint within a circular courtyard of the outer compounds of the Monastery—and to the rogues, it was known as the Outer Cloister. The waypoint would be the finale—the well-earned break at the end of a hard day's battle.

The great twin-doors of lacquered oak stood, towering over the two in almost an imposing fashion. Like the grey stone walls surrounding them, these doors retained traces of past glory—but beneath the cloak of hell's shadows, they were no longer recognisable.

Yet upon these doors grew several vines of climbing ivy—and upon these vines came the roses; large, crimson blossoms the colour of blood. And these were perfect flowers—they had not traces of death upon them, nor had any withered away into the brown earth. From within the ruddy blossoms came the sweet, cloying fragrance of springtime blooms; a natural, and yet unnatural perfume.

Cordelia frowned slightly—it was true, indeed, that the roses were beautiful. And yet, she found them strangely disquieting; as though they were wrought of dark magic instead of Nature's good soil.

Saul growled quietly under his breath—and it was clear that he felt the same.

"These are not of Nature." He hissed.

Cordelia nodded stiffly—and, without quite meaning to, she tightened her hold of his hand. "What _are_ they?"

Saul narrowed his eyes—then, quite without warning, lifted his blade. In a single, swift movement, he'd slashed through the wall of ivy upon the door—and one by one, the roses fell as autumn leaves would. Yet, the ruddy petals had no sooner come into contact with the ground, before bursting into flames of gold and red.

And all that remained of the crimson roses were but blackened ashes.

Cordelia bit her lip. "What _are_ they?" She repeated, her voice a quiet whisper. "Saul—?"

The druid shook his head slightly—and in his eyes, the sorceress saw disgust, mingled amidst hatred and sorrow. "Black magic—the roses are Andariel's trap. A fool's folly—for only mere fools would fall for such tricks." Here, he paused, and turned fully to face her. "The roses are accursed, Cordy. _He who touches them shall perish within the raging inferno of hell's fires_. It is a curse in one of the oldest tongues of Entsteig—Kai'duvah. I could _hear_ the roses _whispering—beckoning._"

She inhaled weakly—for the truth and severity of the situation had begun to make itself known to her. The Sanctuary was threatened thus; and even Nature was used in the name of darkness. It was a prospect terrible to behold—and for several long moments, the sorceress found that she could not speak.

"Come." Saul whispered—and his voice was low, and solemn.

The double-doors swung open—and it seemed as if the evil within were beckoning towards them. The chilly winds tugged at the cursed-rose ashes upon the ground—and in several short gusts, had drawn the blackened remains into the courtyard through the entryway.

Cordelia gave his hand a gentle squeeze—and then nodded.

And together, they stepped through the threshold; and together, they plunged into the darkness of the Tamoe Monastery.

* * *

**Author's note:** FINALLY! Good Lord, I had the **WORST** bout of writer's block as I was writing this chapter. The title is, admittedly, one of my favourite titles so far—and I just wanted to do justice to it by writing an equally good chapter. Here's hoping I didn't disappoint!

Many thanks, as usual, to **Ophelion** for the wunnerful review! I'm glad I tickled your funny bones, and the gallant-Saul-sinking-onto-one-knee scene is for you. I'm glad you loved that, too, and I hope reading it a second time brings shivers to your spine! (But not until you faint!)

Thanks also to **taimench** for the favourite!

Also! I'd like to take the opportunity to thank all of you who've read my story thus far. You've contributed to my number of hits. (1000++, can you imagine?) However, I'd also like to **BEG** all of you lurker-readers to **review**! You can't imagine how depressing it is to realise that people read your story, but just aren't bothered to drop a note to comment. I'm really, really in need of good ol' critique—and it'd be really helpful, plus motivating to hear from you guys. So please, take five minutes, and drop me a line. Pretty, pretty please with sugar on top?

Until then, it's Emmy signing off for now. Cheerio!


	13. Chapter 12: Into the Monastery

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* * *

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**Chapter 12: Into the Monastery**

* * *

_--_

_Waxing moon and waning sun,_

_In darkened shadows, the homeless run;_

_Autumn gale and winter morn,_

_Hellish fiend from fire born._

_--_

_Barriers crumbled within realms,_

_To arms! O' warriors, don your helms;_

_Lest' darkness reigns forevermore,_

_Destroy hell's sovereign from within his core._

_--_

Many moons had waxed and waned since the fall of the Sisterhood of the Sightless Eye—since the conquering of the Tamoe Monastery. Yet the nightmares had not dissipated into lost memory; for grim reminders of the gruesome end hid, still within shadows.

The outer cloister of the Monastery had been a gay and merry garden—and once, within its lush green compound, the rogue sisters had found respite. But no longer.

The cheer and sunlight had long been cast out—and all that was left of the golden days were but distant memories.

To Saul, the dimmed darkness of the monastery was no more than broken rubble; the derelict ruins of greater days long gone—and yet, at the same time, it was no less than shelter; the very roots of those whom he had learnt to care for.

The outer compounds had been devoid of demonic lifeform—and they'd encountered no difficulty as they'd made their way across the grounds of arid grass to the waypoint. Still, they'd not expected an empty courtyard when they'd returned.

They were thus disappointed; for naught but shadows seemed present.

Saul could sense the tension in the air—feel the bloodlust of the hellspawn, from deep within the monastery barracks. Somehow, the knowledge of impending doom; the ever present shadow of darkness bolstered him—it kept him aware, and brought to his senses the true depth of the situation. The ominous silence was that which caused anxiety. And though he did not ask, he knew that Cordelia felt the same.

They slipped with caution into the barracks; yet every step seemed to echo within the silent walls, annoucing their arrival to those who would hinder their progress. The musky scent of rotting wood and burnt flesh drifted heavily in the air. Within the dimly lit chambers, even shadows worked against them—and it was but determination that kept them strong.

"Oh!"

Saul inhaled sharply—then whipped around, drawing his dagger in a single, fluid motion. "Cordy?" He hissed.

The sorceress flinched, as though she'd been slapped. She shook her head just a touch; and her face was pale. "I'm sorry." She swallowed—then motioned stiffly towards a darkened corner. "I just—"

Saul frowned; he shifted his gaze towards the corner. And almost immediately, he felt the bile arise within his throat—and he was sick to his stomach. He took several long seconds to recover—then turned back towards the sorceress. "No. I understand." He whispered.

It had been a sickening sight. He'd known of the rogues' defeat, and their loss of the monastery—and yet, little had he imagined the details of the event. The bloody mound within the corner was built of broken and bruised rogues—time had ravaged their bodies, and all but bones and rotting flesh had wilted away into ash. Occasionally, one would see a wide-eyed face—the terrors of its previous owner's last hours etched, still, upon its tainted flesh. Hell had shown no mercy; dismembered body parts and pulp-like entrails lined the floors, and decorated the walls.

"Let's just go." Cordelia's voice was somewhat stiff—and it was with rather a grim demeanor that she'd begun to tighten her vambraces. She seemed resigned to the constant threat of death. "Saul."

Saul bit his lip, then nodded. Time did not allow delay—and though he wished proper burial rights for the dead, they simply could not spare the extra hours.

And yet, his heart seemed to have frozen against his chest—a lump formed within his throat as grim understanding came to him.

_Theirs was a path tainted with death and despair._ They would not escape the realities of deaths; nor could they shy away from the mere thought of broken lives and tainted corpses.

The same understanding seemed to have come to his companion—and though she was clearly troubled, she chose to say naught; and she bore the knowledge of death with surprising strength.

At length, they came to a the end of the chamber—and within the cold grey stone, a dark wooden door had been placed. Lifting a finger to his lips, Saul leaned forward—then pressed his ear against the dusty wood. The sounds were distinct and clear; the enemy was yonder. He narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, and motioned for Cordelia to ready herself.

A glint in her eye, she gave her staff an idle twirl. Then she nodded—she was ready.

Saul took a deep breath, shutting his eyes briefly. Half a second later, he took a step backwards—and, lifting his leg, brought the door down with a resounding crash. Silence filled the air for several short breaths—and then Saul released a heavy grunt, and stormed, staff aloft, into the party of demons.

The first to fall were a group of dimunitive devilkin demons—caught in surprise, they had barely had time to react before a single, orange-red orb burst into flames before their very feet. And in the blink of an eye, they were dead—fallen onto the ground in a heap of blood-stained, burnt carcasses.

Saul took but a second to watch as the sparking embers filled the chamber with a warm, glowing blaze. Even as the last of the light dissipated into nothingness, he raised his staff—and with a sickening crack, an ebon-robed rogue collapsed onto the ground; and her blood had barely begun to seep into the carpets when her comrade fell beside her.

By the by, they fought their way through the various outer halls and chambers of the barracks. They left in their wake a bloody trail—carcasses and corpses, burnt and bruised; and these lay in heaping mounds upon the cold stone ground. And it was several long hours later before they deemed it time to halt—for both were greatly wearied.

They took refuge within an antechamber to one of the smaller halls; and it, alone, remained untainted by the blood of the innocents. It was a small, dark room, within which a great number of odds and ends had been stored. Wooden barrels were stacked to the ceiling against one wall—and upon a dusty mantelpiece sat an odd array of porcelain figures. Beneath this mantlepiece was a wooden desk of carved ash—and beside this desk was a shelf, within which rested numerous tomes and scrolls. There were chairs, too; some broken, and some merely dust-covered. Some were carved of wood, and others were wrought of steel. A single candlestand stood within a corner of its own, providing what light it could in the midst of shadow.

"Do you suppose—" Cordelia murmured, her voice low and weary, and several purple bruises were visible upon her cheek. "—that we are near?"

Saul hid the smile upon his face—he turned his back to the sorceress and cleared his throat. He knew that she was exhausted, and past experiences had told him of her testy nature in the face of fatigue. Yet, not a single scowl had crossed her features; and she did not seem likely to bite. The change quite surprised him.

"Six years have passed since last I entered the monastery, Cordy." He wrinkled his nose—then peered mildly into the bookshelf. "I can't remember. But if it bolsters you any, I _could_ lie."

She made a noise rather like an angry cat, but said nothing.

Saul chuckled faintly, though he did not think it wise to further incense her. Instead, he tugged a tome from its place—then frowned.

The other tomes were covered in months' worth of dust and cobweb.

Yet the tome he held was _devoid of such filth_—as though it had recently been handled.

Saul stiffened, then turned slowly where he stood. Something was clearly amiss—and yet, _nothing_ looked as it shouldn't. Cordelia sat upon a low chair—and in her hand was a half-finished phial of deep blue potion. She was rocking to and fro upon her perch, her brows knitted together in thought; and she seemed not to have noticed anything out of the ordinary.

He wrinkled his nose, then returned his gaze to the tome. With tentative fingers, he pulled the cover open; and, squinting slightly in the relative darkness, began to read.

--

_Waxing moon and waning sun,_

_In darkened shadows, the homeless run;_

_Autumn gale and winter morn,_

_Hellish fiend from fire born._

_--_

_In silent chamber lies entombed,_

_Hammer's might and weaver's loom;_

_O' altar cruel, o' eclipsed light,_

_Renew the legacy, return to might._

_--_

_Sheltered land neath' skyward oak,_

_Carcass new in blood shall soak;_

_Golden sands in windswept vale,_

_Bring the beast to death so pale._

_--_

_Emerald shore of jungle deep,_

_Stony ruin, forgotten keep;_

_Of blackened temple, of shadowed doom,_

_Upon nation bleak, enshrouded in gloom._

_--_

_Sharpened blade and crumbled home,_

_Seek the lost, repair the dome;_

_All is lost ere' terror's dawn,_

_Yet hope rests within wooden pawn._

_--_

_Barriers crumbled within realms,_

_To arms! O' warriors, don your helms;_

_Lest' darkness reigns forevermore,_

_Destroy hell's sovereign from within his core._

--

The words were faded prints of green and red; and the parchment upon which they had been scribed was crisp—yellowed with age, and thin to the very touch. Saul frowned slightly—the poem had made little sense to him.

"What's that?"

He gasped in surprise—then lifted his gaze. Cordelia had made her way towards him; and her solemn gaze strayed slowly over the words upon the open page. She frowned as she read—and when she'd finished, she released a long, low whistle.

"Well?" Saul tilted his head slightly.

Cordelia shook her head, though her eyes deepened with unspoken thought. "I have never read such a poem before. And it seems more as if it's a—" She paused, scratching gently at her brow. "—a prophesy. The first stanza, does, at the very least."

Saul bit his lip. "What do you make of it?"

"It seems to speak of this monastery, does it not?" Cordelia wrinkled her nose slightly—then subconsciously began to tug at her hair. "_In darkened shadows, the homeless run_—that would account for the siege of the monastery." And she reached over, tapping her index finger gently upon the line. "_Hellish fiend from fire born_. Does that not remind you of something?"

Saul blinked in mild surprise. Then, chuckling sheepishly, he rubbed at the back of his neck. "You have an uncanny knack for solving puzzles and riddles. But something's wrong—and someone else has been in here before us." He motioned stiffly towards the other of cobwebbed tomes—then made a face. "This book was _clean_ when I took it. And I doubt demons read."

She inhaled sharply, and within her visage flashed slight apprehension. "Do you suppose he, or she is still _in_ the monastery?"

"I don't know." Saul muttered. He tore the poem-page from the tome—then riffled through the other pages; and they were empty. He returned the tome to its place, then folded the shred of parchment into quarters, before slipping it into the front of his pack. "There's nothing else in here."

Cordelia scowled. She had watched in silent horror as he'd ripped the page from its bindings—and Saul rather understood why. The sorceress _loved_ books.

He gave her a small, guilty smile. "I'm sorry I had to do that. But I've a feeling the poem may mean something which may yet prove useful in our future—and to keep the entire tome is rather a waste of space."

She eyed him reproachfully—then rolled her shoulders back in a slight shrug. "Whatever you feel you must do." She said, waspishly.

Saul sighed; but nodded assent.

It would be a _long_ day.

* * *

They made their way steadily into the deeper crypts of the monastery; and by the by, found themselves within the end of a darkened corridor. The long hours of battle had wearied them—and their supply of potion had long since dwindled to but meager amounts. Cordelia held but two dimunitive phials of crimson life within her pack—and one of deepest blue. And though he was loathe to admit it, she knew that her companion had but little strength left within him. He walked, now, with a noticeable limp—and upon his arms and face were several lumps of purple-grey; and these were the wounds blatantly ignored in such circumstances as they were resigned to.

She knew she looked little better—a great bump of a bloody wound had formed upon the side of her head, where she'd hit the wall in an earlier skirmish. And upon her arms were burns of various degrees—some mere skin-wounds, and others an angry red in colour. She _felt _as weary as she looked—and she was both physically, and mentally strained. It would not be long before her legs gave way.

Saul's eyes were narrowed—with one hand, he twirled his blade in restless movement about his palm. And with the other, he held his staff firm; rigid.

Cordelia knew that look. It was one that decorated the druid's face when he was deep in thought—or wrought with concern. She pursed her lips together, then leaned into his ear. "What is it?" She hissed.

Saul shook his head slightly, then pulled her to the corner of the corridor—a mere stone's throw from the heavy wooden door. "Beyond that door lies something—_someone_. Be careful when you enter. It is likely that there will be a fight awaiting us." He muttered quietly; and his voice was grim. "How many phials have you left?"

"Two crimson, and one blue." Cordelia bit her lip—and she could see a hint of anxiousness cross the druid's eyes. "And you?"

He took a deep breath. "Two. We should return to the Encampment."

Cordelia stiffened slightly. It had suddenly occurred to her that the day would not come to a pleasant end. She was silent for a moment—then, uncomfortably, "If you want to, we'd have to return to the Outer Cloister. Unless you've a blue-ribboned scroll?"

Saul lifted his eyebrows slightly—and it was with rather a pronounced scowl, that the sorceress had continued.

"I used my last one in the Forgotten Tower. When I was with Kashya." She muttered. "And I—well, I quite forgot to ask Akara to scribe new ones for me."

Saul blinked several times at her. He seemed rather at a loss for words, though he chose to say nothing. Finally, in a lower murmur, "—well. It seems we are in quite a bit of trouble, then." He rubbed gently at the nape of his neck. "But I suppose I share the blame. I quite forgot to replenish my supply of scrolls, as well."

Cordelia crossed her arms, exhaling heavily. Truth be told, she rather appreciated the druid's humility—not many were willing to partake an equal share of blame. Besides, she _had_ told him that she would take care of homebound scrolls. She bit down gently upon her lower lip. "I'll be fine. And I say we storm this last chamber—then return to the encampment for the night. I should think that it is near twilight."

Saul quirked a tiny smile—and he looked just a touch amused. "I agree. But come, now. Do you have enough strength in you for whatever lies in wait for us beyond that door?"

"We'll have to find strength, won't we?" Cordelia said, stiffly. She was _exhausted_—yet she was mad to finish the battle of the day. The longing to collapse—to simply fall into the sweet grass, and to sleep the night away tugged at her limbs. But she had not forgotten her true mission—nor would she allow herself such luxury in the face of evil. She scowled once more. "Come on."

But Saul was watching her once more—and his dark eyes studied her expression with slight uncertainty. Finally, he spoke; and his voice was low. And to her surprise, he did not refute her choice. "We must be careful."

Cordelia nodded once—and in her head echoed stretches of words—couples of couplets. It was vaguely familiar to her—yet when she tried, she found that she could not place it in her memory. She bit her lower lip.

_To arms! To arms! O' warriors of light!_

_In ranks as one, thou shalt' brave the fight,_

_Thy spirits be strenghtened and thy hearts be braved;_

_And thus shalt thy road to glory be paved._

The loud, resounding crash of a collapsing door brought her back to her sordid reality—and shaking her head slightly, Cordelia scowled. The time had come to finish the battles of the day; and poetry would not aid her in such times.

With a low grunt, she narrowed her eyes—then followed the druid into the enveloping cries of hell's minions.

* * *

The great roar of feral rage had pierced the chambers long before the giant had burst into sight. He stood at a height of _at least _seven feet, towering over the druid and his companion. His skin was dry and flaky—and was a faint shade of blue; somehow, it gave him the appearance of one who'd drowned. He wore several layers of furs—the ivory skins of the arctic fox upon his shoulders, and a deep-grey, wolfskin pelt about his torso. In his muscular hands he held a great maul—and upon it were etched several verses in what looked to be ancient Kai'duvah.

_Through steel, my enemies despair,_

_And shadows envelope the fair;_

_O'er heaven, the darkness shall reign,_

_And mercy, my kind shall not feign._

Saul winced slightly—then jumped aside to avoid the first blow of hard metal. Behind him, Cordelia was hard at work—and she flung ball after ball of crimson flames towards the many corrupted rogues about the room. Her aim was true; and many fell with explosive roars and echoing cries.

They were in a smithy—easily recognisable, for a great fire had been built within a circular arrangement of bricks; and this stood to a corner of the room, illuminating shadowed crooks and offering cheerful warmth. Like many of the other chambers, this one held traces of human inhabitance from ages past—torn curtains hung limp from blocked window-sills. Demons rather disliked sunlight.

Saul released a low grunt, then jumped hastily aside. The Keeper of the smithy had sensed weakness—for, gnashing his teeth, he'd brought his great maul into the air; and half a second later, had swung it towards the druid with the ease of one lifting a flower. And he'd barely found the time to regain his footing before another crash echoed through the air; the Keeper had struck again.

"Augh!" The druid swore under his breath; and, dodging once more, narrowly avoided the crushing blow of the giant's great maul. He grunted, then got to his feet. Somehow, he rather doubted that he could evade the blows forever.

_It was time to strike back._

Saul counted to three under his breath; and with every count, he ducked—for the Keeper was not undaunted. The great maul came towards his head with a metallic whiz—he jumped out of the way, gritting his teeth as he drew his blade from its sheath. And then, as the maul came towards him once more, he straightened, lifting both blade and staff. And with a great roar, the air between the druid and the Keeper burst into flames—and the latter fell back, his furious cries resounding within the grey stone walls.

For several short seconds of silence, Saul thought he could see the still form of the Keeper upon the ground—motionless; perhaps dead. Yet, half a moment later, with a low, dangerous grunt, the giant had gotten to his feet. He snarled—then smashed the metal head of his maul into row of barrels. Saul flinched as bits of splintered wood flew from corner to corner. He could hear Cordelia's soft gasp of surprise—and could only hope that she was spared the pain of injury.

Saul narrowed his eyes, then ducked low to avoid yet another blow—for, with rather a feral growl, the Keeper had struck; and the maul missed the druid's head by a mere breadth's worth of hair.

The druid cursed heavily under his breath; he'd lost his balance. Yet, in a single, silent second, as he lay on his chest, he'd readied his blade; then, with absolutely no warning lunged forward to plunge his blade into the depths of the Keeper's giant thigh.

He'd expected a cry of pain; a shout of anger, or at the _very least_, acknowledgement of the assault on the Keeper's behalf. Yet, it did not seem as if the giant had noticed the blade within his thigh.

Saul found himself silent with shock—and for several long moments, he gazed towards the Keeper, eyes widened in slight disbelief.

Was his skin really _that_ thick?

Saul had barely had the time to further contemplate the though when the Keeper reached towards him. Saul inhaled sharply, then jumped to his feet—but to no avail. The giant had grabbed a fistful of cloak—and in a single second, had thrown him unceremoniously against the wall.

The hard brick of the wall came upon his back with a sickening crunch. Saul bit down upon his lower lip, muffling the scream within his throat—and his eyes began to water as his vision blurred. _Something_ was broken. He crumbled onto the ground, and found his left arm dangling lifelessly from his shoulder. The thought made him dizzy.

It was then that a single, piercing shriek filled the air—Cordelia had seen his fall. He grunted heavily, then gritted his teeth. She _needed_ him.

Cursing himself, Saul got to his feet, swallowing hard. He tasted blood.

The Keeper screamed his anger—then swung the accursed maul once more. And Saul caught but several seconds' worth of breath; and saw the look of fear within Cordelia's eyes—before all the wind was knocked from him. Every inch of his abdomen ached; and the druid could feel his heart pulsating against the side of his neck. Every breath that expanded his ribcage sent shivers up and down the length of his spine; and he could count at least two bones that felt as if they were misplaced within his body.

Yet he was given no time to recover; for with an almost amused chuckle—one of hell's own, his opponent lifted him into the air before him. And that grey-blue nose was but inches from his own face—one he knew to be wearied, and covered with dirt, grime and blood. The stench of rotting flesh hit the insides of his nose, causing the bile to rise within his throat. Every nerve within his stomach told him to gag.

And yet, amazingly, Saul caught a hold of the wave of nausea within him; caught it and tamed it. He narrowed his eyes—then, summoning all the strength within his broken body, lifted his staff and brought it whipping through the air towards the Keeper's head.

The giant caught the staff—and easily, with a toothless smirk, threw it into a corner of the smithy.

Saul swallowed once more. Somehow, it came to him, at that precise point, that he was in _a lot_ of trouble. Such a thought had never occurred to him before.

The Keeper released a low, rather nasal laugh—and in his crimson eyes flashed a cruel sense of happiness. Sheer, robust happiness at the mere thought of one's death. Saul found himself flinching away; _how_ would he find the strength to look such evil in the eye?

Yet, he did not quite like the idea of him dying in such a manner.

No, he would die _like a man_—upright, and facing his opponent; eye to eye and face to face.

Even as the Keeper lifted that maul, and placed it beside his head, Saul narrowed his eyes—and with all the courage he could muster turned his face to stare the giant in the eye. And even as a slight streak of apprehension crossed the giant's eyes, Saul kicked out with his right leg—and hit precisely the spot he wished to hit.

The Keeper released his hold of the druid's clothes, crying out in pain and rage. Once more, Saul found himself upon the ground—yet thankfully, naught else seemed injured in the tumble. He grit his teeth, then dragged himself to his feet. His staff and blade were both out of reach—he would have to think fast.

_Claws._

Even as the Keeper came charging towards him, Saul swallowed; his heart was pounding, pounding, and it was with rather a grave amount of trepidation that he'd lifted his good hand to summon all the spirits within him.

Half a second later, the Keeper had collided with him—and the mere force of the greater mass was enough to send him crashing onto the ground. Yet his hand was held upright—but it was no longer a hand. In its stead was a great, grey, wolf-like paw—and its claws were poised, ready to strike. And even as the Keeper raised his maul to strike the last of strikes, Saul clenched that paw; took aim, and lunged forward.

And just like that, the Keeper—the Smith was dead. Saul thought he could see traces of relief flooding the blue-grey face; and half a second later, water—crystalline water began to stream from every orifice of the fallen corpse.

Perhaps he _had_ drowned as a man.

Saul took several short breaths—his vision was beginning to blur once more. He thought he could see the faint outline of Cordelia's limp form upon the ground; surrounded by heaps and piles of broken, bloody corpses. Then, he shifted his gaze slightly, and his eyes found the sparking embers of the forge. It was empty.

He could not quite understand why; but a quick wave of disappointment had begun to overcome him. Had he been expecting to _find_ something within the monastery barracks?

Saul found he no longer remembered.

And then the world went black.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Three cheers for Saul! You people seem to love Cordy so much. Its not that I mind, I love her. But I also love Saul at the same time! We shouldn't neglect our Saul. He's lovable too. :p

Anyhow! I'd like to state for a fact that I think this is possibly one of my better fighting scenes. I tried a new way of writing—I actually went and outlined every single move of the battle before actually writing it. I find that it's somewhat clearer and more.. detailed, in a way?

Gore is dedicated to **Ophelion**, who's so very kindly reviewed me so many times, here and on DeviantArt. Check out my account if you want. (My nickname there is 'Persephine', for those of you who want to know!) I've got some pictures of Saul and Cordy up there, along with a character that has not made herself shown yet. Also, I've got a picture of Oread there, for those of you who read Ophelion's 'Bowslingers'.

I'd like to thank **Luna**, for the very nice, very kind review that she's left me. And also, I'd like to thank **WingF** for the favourite!

Thanks again, you guys. And please try to review? Pretty please with sugar on top?

This is Emmy, signing out for now! Ciao!


	14. Chapter 13: Desperate

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* * *

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**Chapter 13: Desperate**

* * *

_Dancing lights._

The world was a blur of colours—greens, golds, and greys streaked through an ebon sky in which millions of stars twinkled. Yet it seemed an endless expanse of gloom—and the dancing lights of the stars seemed all but diminished within the deep darkness.

All was silent—save for the echoing drip, drip, dripping of liquid substance upon what seemed a hard, stone ground.

_Where could he be?_

Drip; drip; drip.

_How could it be that he did not ache much?_

Drip; drip; drip.

_Should he not be dead?_

Drip; drip; drip.

_Where was the pain?_

Saul lay still for several long seconds. He did not think it prudent to move—or to attempt any form of shifting, at present. Perhaps his body had merely been numbed to the pain—for with injuries such as his, pain was inevitable. And yet, to his utter surprise, he felt little, to no pain. And it brought a new sense of dread to his heart, freezing the very insides of his soul.

_Am I paralysed?_

He swallowed hard, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. For some reason, he felt as if he were a little boy all over again—one afraid of pain and death. The thought half amused him—and with this newfound strength, he attempted to wiggle the biggest toe of his right foot.

It moved with ease.

Saul heaved a low sigh of relief. Then, holding his breath, he set about methodically moving, gently, the other parts of his body. To his surprise, he found that he could shift both his legs without much difficulty; and though the muscles were sore, slight discomfort was naught compared to what he'd expected. Slowly, Saul lifted his right arm—then flexed his fingers.

_No pain._

A gentle, ticking sensation upon his side tugged at his attention; and Saul allowed his eyes to flutter, slowly open. He felt somewhat awakened now; and it was with rather less caution that he'd attempted to move his left arm.

He gasped, clasping his good hand over his mouth to stiffle the cry of pain within his throat; it felt as if hundreds and thousands of ice-cold knives had pierced the very insides of his shoulder. And just then, the events that had taken place not several hours ago flooded his mind; and with a soft, almost feral groan, the druid cursed his forgetfulness.

_The dull thump of a lifeless limb at his side. The harsh ringing of steel against his side._

Minutes passed in which Saul merely lay still; his breath came in harsh and quick rasps, for the pain within his shoulder and side had not yet begun to subside. It seemed hours later before the throbbing began to dissipate into rather duller aches. Saul had noticed, then, that his broken arm was bound in a tight cast.

_Who could have bound his arm? Surely Cordelia would not have had the strength?_

Half a second passed in silence before the thought hit him as a thunderbolt would; he bolted upright, suddenly ignorant of the protesting twinge within his shoulder, and gasped—"Cordy!"

"Hush!"

It happened in all the time of a single second; the murmured tones of a woman's voice reverberated within his ears, and a slender-fingered hand pushed him, though not unkindly, into his prior position. Saul inhaled sharply—then began to struggle, in futile attempts, to rise.

"Be quiet. I am not going to hurt you." The words were spoken in soft, quietened hisses; a voice that he was _sure_ did _not_ belong to Cordelia.

Saul growled—and flung his good arm out in an attempt to push the hand from his chest. To his dismay; the hand did not budge, nor did its hold of him falter. He stiffened slightly—and anxiety began to creep into his being.

He swallowed—and with a frown, ceased to struggle; for the stabbing pain of his injuries were beginning to resurface. "Who are you?" He began—and it was in rather a roughened baritone that he'd spoken. Nonetheless, the touch of the hand upon his chest softened—and its owner spoke again.

"I am going to let you up. But please—don't try to get away. You will only inflict more pain upon yourself." It was in a low and husky burr that the other spoke; almost as if she were a cat of some sort. Every syllable was spoken lightly—in almost a temperate, carefree manner. Yet, Saul found that he could detect slight traces of a force within these words—as though they were but a façade to shield true emotions from exposure.

_Perhaps he was very much wrong—but was it fear within the whispered depths of the woman's voice?_

"You haven't answered my question." Saul began—then grunted heavily as he pushed himself, with one arm, into a seating position. Clearly, his right arm was not as strong as he'd guessed. The woman lifted her hand, and he could only suppose that she'd stepped away. He blinked the weariness from his eyes, then squinted into the gloomy darkness. "Who are you?"

Within the encompassing darkness of the dimly-lit chamber, the druid found that he could see no further than beyond the length of his outstretched fingertips. He narrowed his eyes ever so slightly—somehow, it seemed careless; almost stupid to submit to trust thus easily. Who _was_ this woman? _And where was Cordelia?_

It was as though she could read his mind. Saul thought he could see the faint outlines of a rather curvacious figure; her arms were crossed over her chest, and her stiff-backed stance suggested her to be one of cautious nature. She seemed to consider his question—then, clearing her throat softly, stepped backwards into the one weak light-source of the room; a dimunitive candelabra wrought of pewter and steel that the druid had not noticed until that point.

She was tall, and rather slender, though her womanly curves were more than unusually prominent. Her dark hair had been pulled back into a severe chignon, exposing a graceful, swan-like neck, a high, aristocratic forehead and flawless complexion, which, cast within the pale-gold light of the candelabra, was almost deathly pale. Large, almond-shaped eyes of deepest jade, delicately flecked with traces of gold and grey, rested on either side of her pointed nose; and though her stance was guarded, and her expression tense, these eyes betrayed deeper emotions—anxiety and apprehension.

She watched him for several short moments—then inclined her head in what seemed to the druid a vague greeting. "You may call me Veriannyth."

"Who _are_ you?" Saul repeated his question, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly; somehow, it did not quite feel as if a mere name were a sufficient answer.

She lifted a thin, dark eyebrow—and for several long moments, naught but silence passed between them. Then, with something of a wry smile—"I've _already_ answered your question, druid; I am known as Veriannyth. And you needn't be wary of my presence. I mean you no harm." She lifted a hand to scratch idly at the tip of her nose. "Might I enquire as to who _you_ are, then? I have introduced myself; and it would be rude for you to not return the favour."

Saul frowned—he was in no temper to discuss common courtesey. "Call me Saul." He muttered, somewhat grudgingly. And then, with something of a bite in his tone—"What business have you in this monastery, woman?"

"I understand that my name is rather a long one. If you wish, you may call me _Ria_, as opposed to _woman_." A trace of grim amusement; and perhaps the just the slightest bit of prideful disdain flashed across the depths of her eyes. And then, again, as though she could read his mind—"I don't _care_ if you should place your trust in me. But for my efforts of restoring your health, I deserve, at the very least, respect."

_Cordelia._

"Have you seen my comrade?" Saul interjected, his tone grave; the game of wit and words would have to wait. For now, he required what news he could hear of Cordelia. Was she safe? Could she be lying, perhaps _dead_, upon the ground?

A slight tremor made its way slowly up the druid's spine—he shuddered at the sensation, then fixed his deep grey orbs upon the woman before him once more.

He was only mildly aware that he'd somehow insulted her; yet he could not care much at present—not when anxiety weighed thus heavily upon his rather sore shoulders. "She fell near to me, but I am unsure of the extent to which she may have suffered."

She watched him once more—and for a moment or two, Saul would have believed her to have been considering him; his intentions and the concern he bore for his companion. Then, nodding curtly, she murmured—"She is safe."

Saul lifted a brow in slight apprehension. So short and brief an answer deserved disbelief; yet he wished, with every fibre of his soul, that she had spoken the truth. He pursed his lips slightly, then pushed himself, rather haphazardly, to his feet.

The sharp, prickling sensation returned almost instantly to his side; and this time, he felt every single seconds' worth of it.

He released, rather involuntarily, a low grunt; and the hand of his good arm found its way to the afflicted side, gripping the flesh with a wild sort of desperation. The pain had come—when he'd least expected and least desired it to. But, he did not return to his makeshift bedding—and with yet another grunt, his eyes watering ever so slightly, the druid straightened, shifting his footing uneasily as he did so.

"Be careful." A frown had begun to crease the woman's forehead—and it was rather a concerned gaze that she fixed upon him. "I did not have enough potion, nor had I the expertise to completely heal your wounds. They will need proper care when you return to your stronghold, especially your arm. The bone is broken from the inside. I cannot heal it."

"Cordelia." Saul muttered through gritted teeth. He could see a slight flash of apprehension within the woman's eyes; but he chose to ignore it. "Where is she?"

The woman pursed her lips vaguely—and with a pang within the very depths of his stomach, Saul recognised the look as one which often graced his youngest sister's face; Seirra looked as the woman did when slightly annoyed. She had rather brittle strength when it came to patience—and it was, as Akara regularly reminded him, a family trait.

"I assure you—she is quite safe. But be quiet, for heaven's sake." She said, waspishly. "Do you want to awaken all forms of darkness within these barracks?" She narrowed her eyes just a touch, then gestured impatiently towards a corner of the room. "She is over there, and she was, and is in far better condition than you are now—but she has exhausted her source of energy. She is resting now."

Saul glanced stiffly towards the corner—then heaved a faint sigh of mingled relief and gratitude.

Cordelia had been lain upon a makeshift bedding of several wooden crates—these were placed together to create a flat, strong surface. Her cloak had been placed upon the wood beneath her, and her pack had been transformed into a temporary head-rest. She appeared at peace—she could have been sleeping.

"Thank you." He murmured; and the words were uttered without that deep, grudging disdain he'd held previously within his voice. The sight of the sleeping red-head calmed him somewhat; it was both inexplicable and odd. He paused a moment; then spoke once more. "Where did you come from?"

The woman took a deep breath. She seemed just a touch troubled; yet when she spoke, her words were light, and held almost a careless quality within them. "Kurast, to the East."

Saul blinked. "How did you get here? As I understand it, the mountain pass through to the east is—" He frowned slightly, lifting a hand to rub at the back of his head. "—blocked."

She gave him a vague, rather enigmatic smile—and in all of a single split second, understanding came to him.

"I have been here before." She began, dryly. "Therefore, I was able to make quick use of the waypoints—I arrived here not two days ago."

Saul nodded stiffly—then pressed on. Unanswered questions were clouding his head; and he had every intention of being free of them before the day was quite over. "Why are you here?"

She gave him a hard look; and for a moment or two, he thought he saw a hint of impatience deep within the depths of her eyes. But he blinked—and it was gone. She shrugged. "You do not pretend, at the very least, to trust me. I do not see the need to—ah—_return_ your favour."

He pursed his lips; the woman was beginning to annoy him.

Truth be told, Saul had not expected much of a straight answer from one such as her; the people of Kurast were known for their wit. Questions in Kurast had no real answers—only endless sentences made of naught but rubbish words. The jungle of jade was well known for its mystique, and the brilliance of those who bent the elements to their will within the shaded groves. But it was no longer the case.

A rumour had arisen even within the shades of Entsteig—the Sanctuary was threatened, and greatly so. The rogues were not the sole victims of the rising shadow; not would they be the last.

"I am going to be honest with you." Saul began; and he knew his tone to be both tight and grim. "It is true that I do not trust you. But that is because you have given me no reason to trust you. You say that you are from Kurast; and you say that you have been here before. Yet you give no reason as to why you have returned." He paused; she had paled just a touch, and her eyes were slightly narrowed. "You feign indifference and suffer the harshness of my words—yet your voice betrays you. Something troubles you; it eats at your insides, and refuses you rest. You are _desperate_. But for what reason—"

Saul paused once more; he fixed his deep grey gaze upon that of hers—and in her eyes, in her face, and in the slight twitching of her lips was desperation. He lowered his gaze slightly; then murmured. "—I do not know. That is for _you_ to tell me."

She lifted an eyebrow, and for several short moments, Saul half thought that she would begin to shout at him. But when she spoke once more, her voice was low—somewhat wearied. "My home is threatened."

Saul nodded slightly. "That seems to be the case with _many_ homes these days."

She gave him a look; and Saul fell silent once more. Life with four sisters had taught him that it was best to allow women the freedom of speech when they gave one such look. "The Zakarum high priests have—abandoned their duties. They drove our people from the greater parts of the city—the Travincal and Upper Kurast. Even as I speak to you, the last of our men fight for control of the Kurast Bazaar. It will not be much longer before we are forced as far back as the Dockside."

"Why—" Saul began; but she held a hand up to silence him.

"We believe that the Zakarum have been infilterated from deep within their souls. They are corrupted now—nothing more than empty shells, mere shadows of their former glory. They do Hell's bidding now." Her eyes were narrowed ever so slightly; and almost as if it were a subconscious habit, she began to pace the chamber, her hands clasped over her lap. "Our defenses are failing, and if we don't do something quick, all of Kurast will fall to darkness. And all hope there ever was of restoring the glorious good of the Travincal will disappear forever."

Saul frowned slightly—a deep and somewhat dark pit had appeared within the chasms of his belly; his spine tingled with tremors that had nothing to do with the pain of his injuries. He inhaled sharply. "Veriannyth."

The use of her name seemed to bolster her; for, with rather a faint smile, she'd lifted her gaze to his, and nodded. "Aye, Saul."

"What is it that you seek here?" He tilted his head slightly; a somewhat gentle gesture. "I do not ask because I wish to thwart your plans. I ask because—if there is anything at all that I can do for you—" Here, he paused for several short seconds—and his voice trailed away into silence.

She bowed her head slightly—and for a moment or two, Saul thought he'd imagined the burning patches of red upon her cheeks. "A month ago, it was discovered that the protective enchantment upon the Kurast Dockside had been weakened. If the last of our warriors should fail to retain control of the Bazaar, and of Lower Kurast, we shall be forced into the safety of the Dockside. Safety, however, is relative to the strength of the enchantment—and as of now, the enchantment has almost been destroyed."

"There is a fabled hammer, widely known even amongst the lore of my people: the Mah'dhurr. I believe, in your tongue, it is called the Horadric Malus. We need the power within this hammer—the power to imbue items with magical properties beyond the ordinary."

"Why is that?" Saul frowned slightly. The idea seemed, to him, somewhat ludicrous—how would a mere hammer, regardless of its magical properties, aid in the protection of an entire culture?

"The Kurast Dockside is protected by an ancient magic practiced only by a clan of powerful mages—the Gadnuri Bhet. The Gadnuri practice magic of a different kind that you may know of—they are object benders, and often are able to summon the very spirits from within various kinds of substances. Steel is one of them. Few reside still within the Sanctuary; many have departed from our world to traverse realms beyond our imaginations combined. But one resides, still in Kurast; and he is called Ormus."

"So—why do you need the Malus?" Saul lifted both his eyebrows; but almost instantly was obliged to fall silent once more. Here, now, was yet _another_ woman who reminded him of the rogues' captain; for with a faint scowl, she'd motioned him into silence.

"The protection upon our dockside is an enchantment cast long ago. The elders of the Gadnuri Bhet invoked the power of a holy Skatsimi blade: the Gidbinn, and afterwards placed it within a sacred chamber of the great Kurast Tower, where the spirit within the blade long protected our dockside and lands from the foul corruption of hell's minions—and at first, we thought that the magic would be able to withstand the darkness. But slowly, our defenses began to crumble—and we are left with naught but ruined homes. The demon-flayers have stolen the Gidbinn, and we do not know where it is now."

Saul nodded slowly. Pieces of an uncomplete puzzle were beginning to form within his head, but he felt somewhat less confused. "Shall I suppose that you require the Malus to craft a blade worthy of the Gidbinn's magic? That you seek to replace the Gidbinn with a new blade?

"That—" Veriannyth crooked a wry smile. "—is correct. But we seem to have encountered a dead end. Even the best of our smiths were unable to correctly harness the Malus's power to craft the replacement blade."

"So you returned."

"Aye, Saul." She gnashed her teeth together in frustration. Then, with rather a great sigh, she strode towards the druid, and leaned back against the wall beside him. "I returned. The elder mages used the last of their magic to teleport me here the first time. And as such, I am now able to command the use of the waypoints. But what use is that if I cannot reveal the secret of the Malus?"

Saul released a low, hollow chuckle. Then, tilting his head slightly to catch her eye—"The magic within the Horadric Malus can only be harnessed by the one to whom it was entrusted; Valdamyr Carcoumb, and his descendents. It does not matter how greatly skilled your smiths are. If the Malus does not recognise the blood of its master, it will not allow use of its magic. Instead, it becomes itself in its truest form—a mere hammer."

Veriannyth blinked. A look of greatest horror had penetrated her face; her eyes were widened, and her mouth had fallen agape. For a moment or two, she merely stared at him—unblinking, and silent.

"You needn't fear." Saul quirked a small smile, then lifted his good hand to scratch at his nose. "My family are of the Carcoumb line—and my cousin is the current heir of the Malus. I am quite sure that she would not refuse your request—and if I know her at all, I know that she would gladly craft your replacement blade for you. But our offer extends on one condition."

Her eyes widened just a touch; and she clasped one hand over her neck. Then, in a soft whisper of a voice—"Name it."

"You must return the Malus to my cousin. There is no question of that—it is a family heirloom." Saul said; and he was only vaguely aware of the slight conviction in his tone. "Do we have a deal?"

She blinked once, and then twice; for several short moments, Saul thought that she was going to refuse—or at the very least, protest. And yet, when she spoke, it was in a rather relieved cadence—and she sounded as if she were younger at heart, and stronger in spirit. "Deal."

Saul smiled slightly—then nodded. "Alright, then."

At length, they both fell silent, each choosing quiet retreats into the back of their minds. From time to time, the druid would chance a gaze towards the sleeping sorceress; and he would smile, for the mere sight of her was somehow soothing. Yet, he found that he could not gaze upon her sleeping form for long—for both guilt and longing tugged upon his heart, each opposing the force on the other side. Many times, he found himself longing for the gentle warmth of her smile, and the capricious cheer of her laughter. Yet to love her, and to be loved _by_ her meant the splitting of his being—the carving of his soul into two.

Was it possible to share himself between the two longings? Could he remain true to both Cordelia, and Nature?

"Saul—" Veriannyth was tugging at his sleeve; and upon her face was a look of grim amusement. She motioned towards the sleeping sorceress.

Saul blinked several times—then released a series of quiet chuckles.

The sorceress was _murmuring_ in her sleep.

And even as Saul struggled to silence his amusement, she rolled over, one arm draped delicately over her middle, and sighed softly—"_Please.. don't steal my cow, Kashya._"

* * *

"Hello, darling. How's your cow?"

Cordelia ripped several blades of grass from upon the ground—then threw a dirty glare towards the druid. "Don't call me that, you traitor. I wish to goodness you'd have had the common sense to _wake_ me."

Saul grinned. He rubbed gently at the top of her head with his good hand, then sank stiffly onto the ground beside her. "How was I to know that you would begin murmuring in your sleep?"

She pushed his hand away. "How was _**I**_ to know that I would begin murmuring in my sleep?"

"Well—yes, I suppose I _do_ know you better than you know _yourself_."

"You halfwit _cow_!" She flung her handful of grass at him.

He laughed. "At least I know you'll protect me from Kashya, then."

Cordelia scowled, then leaned forward to hug her legs to her chest. She leaned her chin upon her knees; and drew a long, deep breath.

It had been several long hours since they'd returned from the monastery with the woman from Kurast; Veriannyth. Cordelia found her somewhat intriguing—though she was not folly enough to trust her thus soon. Indeed, it seemed as if all but Saul watched her with wary eyes. Kashya had been especially harsh—and her words were as cruel, as they were biting. And yet, the woman bore the insults with considerable grace. Not once did she show displeasure, nor did she retort in likeness; yet all this served only to infuriate the captain, who had, since then refused to acknowledge her existence.

Cordelia sighed softly—then blew dully at a crimson lock upon her forehead. Across the fiery coals of the bonfire-clearing, Deckard Cain stood deep in conversation with a severe-looking Liene; Cordelia thought she looked somewhat bored and annoyed. The notion brought a faint smile to her face, and quite involuntarily, she chuckled.

"What's so funny?" Saul tilted his head slightly towards her, lifting a dark brow.

She glanced towards him, then turned away with renewed huffiness; she was not quite finished being angry with him. "Nothing."

He chuckled softly—and with a low grunt, shifted closer towards her.

Cordelia was only mildly aware of her nostrils flaring—she turned towards him, and narrowed her eyes. "What?"

"Nothing." Saul chuckled softly, then rolled his shoulders backwards into a would-be shrug; but before he'd managed to _actually_ shrug, all the colour drained from his face—and with a softened yelp of pain, he doubled over onto the grass, clutching hard upon his left shoulder. "Oww!"

Cordelia made a rather impatient sound from between her teeth; then moved to kneel beside the druid. She clasped a hand over his shoulder. "Does it hurt _that_ much?"

She thought she could see a genuine flash of pain within those deep grey orbs as he lifted his head to meet her gaze. But he smiled—albeit it was rather a weak one. "I'm fine. I should remember not to stretch, is all."

"What did Akara say?" She rubbed gently at his shoulder, her brows knitted together ever so slightly. "About your shoulder—how long will the wound take to heal?"

He made a face, then pushed himself upright. "About a week or two. Don't worry."

"I'm not worried. I just don't want you to—"

"Ahem."

The soft, low cough caught her attention as easily as thunder and lightning would—Cordelia whipped about, lifting her brows; she thought she knew the person to which the cough belonged. She was not disappointed.

In relative terms, the captain of the rogues was rather a tall woman. She stood at a height far greater than most of the rogues, and towered over the sorceress by a foot or so. Yet, to find the woman _looming_ over her kneeling form, brought the sorceress to a new level of fear. Saul had not, apparently, failed to notice this—and it was with rather a small chuckle of amusement that he'd shook his head, and looked away.

Cordelia released a faint laugh—and, all too late, came to notice the touch of the druid's bare shoulder beneath her hand. With a soft gasp of shock, she drew her hand back, then offered a small, rather sheepishly smile towards the captain.

Kashya's eyes were narrowed; and for a moment or two of sheer silence, Cordelia could have sworn that there rested a throbbing vein within her temple. But several seconds passed in which she merely studied the sorceress. Finally, she spoke, and it was in a tone both chilling and cold—"I came to speak to Saul. Privately."

Saul blinked once in slight surprise. "Me? What have you to say to me that cannot be said aloud?"

Cordelia flinched slightly; then gazed upon the green grass, for the captain had thrown her a scowl of greatly spiteful proportions. "Perhaps I should leave."

"Yes, perhaps you should." Kashya said, stiffly.

Cordelia pursed her lips slightly. Shrugging mildly, she got to her feet, and began to brush the grass from her robes. For a moment or two, she caught Saul's eye—and he was frowning in slight distaste. It was a look unlike any he'd previously worn; and somehow, it rather interested her. She gave him a weak smile which he did not return.

"There's no need for you to go, Cordy." He said—and in his voice was an odd severity.

She frowned—then gazed between the captain and the druid. The former looked murderous; a bright fire, no doubt fueled by anger and jealousy burned within her steely teal orbs. "It's—better if I go." Cordelia coughed softly; she rather despised confrontation.

And yet, even as she'd made to stride away, a hand—a rather _warm_ hand, reached forward to grasp hers tightly; Saul, too, had gotten to his feet. He gave her a look, then released his hold of her hand and turned to face the captain. "Your speech will have to wait, I'm afraid. There are things that I must attend to."

And with that, he turned, and strode away.

Cordelia swallowed—then glanced aside towards Kashya; and to her greatest relief, the captain did not remark. Instead, with rather a contemptuous snarl, she turned on her heels—and in all her fury strode away towards the Northern end of the Encampment.

"She's got quite a temper, that Captain."

Cordelia blinked once—then turned around to meet the newcomer's gaze.

The woman from Kurast stood at rather a comfortable height—and she was of the same build as the sorceress. Her hair, which had previously been pulled into a chignon of severe proportions, fell loose about her waist. Cordelia noted absently that it was, in fact, not as dark as supposed—in between tresses of a rich, deep brown were locks of fair gold. She stood in a stiff-backed manner, her chin worn slightly higher than that of most others. Cordelia rather envied her posture, for it spoke volumes of elegance and grace.

The woman offered a rather lazy smile. "You are.. Cordelia. Is that right?"

"Yes. And you're Veriannyth." Cordelia replied, somewhat lamely. It seemed the right thing to say—and yet, sounded immensely dense when spoken. She flushed slightly at the thought, but returned the smile.

"So—" Veriannyth lifted her arms languidly; then crossed them over her chest. "—what did you do to her?"

Cordelia made a noise rather like an angry cat; then, rather too defensively, cried—"Nothing!"

Veriannyth released a soft, polite chuckle. "Alas. I, at least, was given a reason for her treatment of me."

"What did she say?" Cordelia tilted her head slightly to watch the other.

"The fact that I live, breathe, and tread upon the soil of _her_—" Here, Veriannyth paused, to create an appropriate effect; and she was smiling, despite the treatment of her. "—encampment irks her. Apparently _many things_ within the encampment require her attention. If she _frequently_ suffers the sight of my face within these walls, she has every right to detest me. Or, at least, that was about as much as she'd said to me."

"And what did _you_ say?"

"I asked her a question."

"What—was it?" Cordelia wasn't quite sure she wanted the answer—but the amused smile upon the other's face was quite enough to draw her curiousity.

Veriannyth chuckled softly. "_Then what good are you?_"

It was at that precise moment that Cordelia decided; she rather liked the woman from Kurast.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Aaaaaand here it is! A new chapter! I'm aware that it came after a much longer delay than usual; my apologies for it. Also, this is the last chapter I will be posting, at least, until mid-December. Reason being, I'm having a major exam starting the 19th of November, through to the 3rd of December. Therefore, my writing time will be squished into studying time. I'm sorry, but I do hope y'all **KEEP READING**.

Meanwhile, y'all can amuse yourselves with my Deviantart gallery. I've got some pretty good (hopefully..) sketches there of Saul and Cordy, along with some comic strips involving Saul, and Ophelion's Nyhl (from Bowslingers!). Watch out for them, yeah?

Next up! Many hundreds and thousands of thanks to **Ophelion** for the kind, kind reviews! Also, thank you to **Luna** for the second review—I actually giggled when I read it!

Also, many thanks go to **Innerfire** for the author alert! Thank you thank you thank you!

And! Thanks and chocolates go to **LadyElfDragon/Virali**, who's… wow, made me giggle the entire day with a sudden whole-bunch of reviews! Thank you SO much, and I hope you keep reading and enjoying!

Thanks again, dears. Remember, readers, read and review! I'll give you all chocolates! …and cake! XD


	15. Chapter 14: Gilder Cage & Gloomy Prison

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**Chapter 14: Gilder Cage and Gloomy Prison**

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The monastery barracks had seen much suffering and death.

It had been ten days since the cleansing of the outer monastery chambers; the spawns of hell resided no longer within the corridors of the rogues' sacred sanctuary. And yet, the aura of crimson darkness had not faded in the slightest—the golden goodness of the cleansing had not yet made its presence known.

Perhaps in due time, with sufficient patience, the crimson aura would fade—and perhaps, just perhaps, the monastery would be returned to its prior glory.

They edged warily along the darkened chambers in a single file; Saul, Cordelia—and behind them, in rather soundless and fluid steps, Veriannyth. She alone seemed completely at ease; it was true that she wore elogated claws of serrated platinum, and that her hair had, once more, been twisted away at the back of her head. Every inch of her looked prepared for battle—yet her posture suggested otherwise. Gone was the stiff-backed maiden of Kurast, who spoke suspiciously, and walked with caution. Still, she had retained her graceful elegance—her movements cat-like; for she was sure-footed as she was agile.

To Saul, their new companion seemed somewhat an enigmatic presence. Never before had he met one of her kind—for it was rare for those of Entsteig to travel as far as the Jade-clothed jungles. Something about her interested him; perhaps it was the searching look she often held within her deeply-coloured eyes—as though she could not glean enough of the landscapes surrounding her. Other times, he thought he'd caught glimpses of a deeper emotion within those eyes; recognition. Afterwards, she would retreat to the riverbank, where the silent ripples were surely a tonic for her troubled soul.

And yet, as confused and nonplussed as she could be after these recognition episodes, the maiden would join both him and Cordelia—and she would speak of many things of interest; often tales of Kurast. It was as if she were two beings; two souls, forced into the body of one. Sometimes, Saul found himself imagining the woman in a life quite different than the one she described—she certainly _looked_ as if she'd known a home besides Kurast.

"Saul."

He started; his thoughts had clouded his mind somewhat. With a rather feeble chuckle, he turned, then lifted a casual brow. "Hrm?"

Cordelia wrinkled her nose slightly; and with rather an impatient stroke brushed her hair from her forehead. "Over there."

Saul blinked once—then glanced aside towards the inclined direction. "Aha." He said.

_A soft, childish laugh. A group of children running about the darkened monastery corridors.._

He bit his lip, shaking his head slightly. A lone tremor made its way up his spine—but he ignored it.

The days of his childhood were long past—many years had come and gone since his childhood days; when hour after hour was devoted to naught but frivolous games and the like. How his cousin, and his sisters had ran, untamed, about the monastery—where laughter and joy came in the simplicity of the colour of a butterfly's wings. Many a day had been spent in merry wanderings; and they had been the best of friends—they had been _inseperable._

Charsi; his beloved cousin, whom, every summer, they were sure to visit. Seirra—fair-haired and hazel eyed; even then, a beautiful young lady as befitted her station in life.

_And Tomei; dearest of all to his heart._

The gentle touch of a hand upon his shoulder brought him back to dim reality—and he blinked. There was a lump in his throat; and he found it somewhat taxing to attempt to speak. A horizontal grille wrought of ebon steel and bronze lay before them; and it had been fitted into an entrance within the ground. The lock upon it had long since decayed into dust; yet surely, none would seek entrance into so dismal a space?

"Where does _this_ lead to?" Veriannyth had come up beside him; and even as she peered into the endless gloom of the chambers beneath her, she wrinkled her nose.

Saul pursed his lips slightly. "The jail levels."

"There's a _prison_ in here?" Cordelia seemed somewhat surprised; she leaned over the gaping hole, narrowing her eyes ever so slightly. "I didn't know that."

"The jail levels were built to hold prisoners of war. About a century ago, a great battle was fought just beyond the gates of the monastery; a squabble of sorts between the two clans that resided within the Tamoe highlands. Not many of us remember it now—and those who do don't speak of it." Saul muttered grimly. "Anyhow—the High Priestess of the time; Elynn Noirdax, rather detested the idea of public executions. She had much power in the community, and she used this, at first, to attempt to persuade the warring parties to cease fire. But her words were hurriedly shot down; and she lost both authority and pride."

Veriannyth cocked her head slightly; she seemed rather curious. "So why were the jails built?"

Saul shrugged. "Some say they were built to hold the High Priestess. Others say that the High Priestess, herself, commissioned its building; to hold the prisoners of war, rather than to execute them."

"What were the people fighting over?" Cordelia lifted a crimson brow.

"Lands and gold." Saul smiled wryly. "Those days, men would fight men, as they could _afford_ to kill one another. But now, they must make a stand—to set aside their differences, and to fight for the dawning of a new, golden era." Here, he paused, taking a low, deep breath. "But I very much doubt that they would do so. The wounds run too deep within their hearts."

Veriannyth blinked placidly at him for several short moments. Then, in rather a dry mutter—"Men are born fools."

"And fools they remain." Cordelia supplied, with a vague smile. "But come, now, Saul. Do we tempt fate by attempting passage through these prison walls, or is there another way into the deeper parts of the monastery?"

Saul made a face—their prospects did not suit him at all. "I can enter the monastery through the waypoint; that is how the rogues used to travel within these walls—but neither of you have been inside. Therefore—" He paused; then pointed blandly into the encompassing darkness beneath them. "—we have but one choice."

A look of grim understanding passed between them. Then, simultaneously, three pairs of hands reached forward—and together, they prised the grilles open. And mere moments later, they stepped, in silence, onto the dust-caked steps—and together made their way into the encompassing darkness of the underground prisons.

* * *

_He was running—running and laughing as if he could never stop. A small, warm hand was clasped within his—and they were running together, through seemingly endless corridors of deep grey stone. Warm sunlight shone through the narrow windows; and all seemed well in the world._

"_Saul! Saul—hurry! Charsi and Seirra will catch us!"_

_He laughed—and rounded a corner, tightening his hold of the little hand. "They won't, if we hide."_

"_Run faster!" The little girl giggled—she could not have been more than five. Large, dewy eyes of greenish-gold; hazel, peered up at him from a frame of thick, ebon curls. Her cheeks were a healthy pink from the exercise, and the laughter. Several times she stumbled, as she jogged along after him—yet he held her firm, as a protective she-wolf would her cubs._

"_I can't!" He made a quick face at her. "If I do, you won't be able to keep up. And if you fall and scrape your knee—" He rounded another corner, then lowered his voice to a whisper. The delighted chuckles of their persuers echoed all about them—they were near. "—mother will blame me. And that, my Tomei, is something I dread."_

_Tomei giggled once more; apparently, she had chosen to ignore his words. "Hurry, Saul!"_

_He sighed, rolling his eyes. "If you say so." With rather an impish grin, he leaned towards the child—and in a single, fluid movement scooped her into his arms. She laughed, clapping her hands in glee; and he smiled at the sight. "Hush, now! Or they'll hear us!"_

_She clasped a chubby hand over her mouth, and nodded obediently. Yet her eyes were brimming with childish delight—and as he ran, she threw a hand over his neck, and held her cheek to his. He laughed—and deeper, deeper, they ran; surely, this time, they would win the game…_

* * *

"Saul, watch out behind you!"

Reality came tumbling down upon the druid; for a moment or two, he simply stood, blinking. He had not realised that he'd spaced out—nor did he remember stepping into the threshold of a battle. And yet, here he was, caught within a battle of apparently great proportions; Cordelia and Veriannyth certainly looked busy. The former threw fireball after fireball in every direction, her ashen face pulled taut with grim concentration, whilst the latter jumped from corner to corner, her slender-bladed claws held aloft.

Gritting his teeth, he whirled around—and in the nick of time, lifted his staff to parry the heavy blow of a bone-wrought axe.

The skeletal warrior fell back, hampered by the force of the staff—but it was not yet defeated. For a moment or two, Saul merely stared at it in wonder and disgust. The undead demon had eyes, it was true—but they were crimson; bloodshot, and gruesome; and it was through these eyes that the warrior gazed upon the druid.

The gentle creak of ancient bones filled the air—and he'd barely had time to react before his opponent crumbled to dust and ashes at his feet. He blinked.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Cordelia shrieked—a bright blue ball of flames danced angrily within the palm of her hand. "You could've been killed!"

Saul frowned. "I—what happened?" He mumbled quietly; he was in no mood to argue. The back of his head was throbbing.

"We were ambushed. Don't you remember?" Veriannyth strode over towards him; and she had rather a doubtful look in her eyes as she looked him up and down. "We were all fighting—and then suddenly, _you weren't _any more. And there was that—well, _thing_ behind you, and you didn't do _anything_. How, by the Vizjerei, does someone space out during a battle?"

"I—what?" Saul lifted an eyebrow—and then, feeling somewhat stupid, ran his hand across his nose. It was not unusual for him to retreat into deeper thoughts within his head; but to completely miss the a raging battle before him was quite unheard of. Furthermore, he _had_ been fighting—but how?

Cordelia narrowed her eyes—and with a rather petulant scowl, gave her hand an impatient jerk. The flames she held disappeared. "Seriously? You can't remember the ambush?" She frowned—then proceeded to examine the sides of his head. "Ria, you don't suppose—?"

Veriannyth nibbled at her lower lip as she wiped the ebon blood from her claw-blades. "I don't know. But if he's forgetting things—"

Saul blinked once; then glanced from Cordelia, to Veriannyth. His throbbing of head was beginning to worsen—and he had slight suspicion that it had nothing to do with the vague words of the two women. He lifted a hand, and rubbed at the throbbing lump at the back of his head—then gasped.

His hand had come away bloody.

Cordelia gasped, her eyes widening rather dramatically. "Oh, dear God! Saul, you're bleeding!"

"I know." Saul grumbled—but despite himself, smiled. "Does this mean I didn't deserve that yelling after all?"

She scowled once more. "Sit down and let me look at that cut before I throttle you to the ground."

Saul thought he'd heard Veriannyth snort—but he was obliged to obey the sorceress. She looked practically murderous. He sat down upon a dusty wooden stool, twiddling with his blood-stained thumbs as she rummaged about her pack—no doubt looking for bandages and healing herbs. "What happened?"

"What's the last thing you remember?" Veriannyth lowered herself onto the ground beside him—and with several quiet clicks, removed her claw-blades. She placed them tenderly before her; then gazed expectantly up at him. "Well?"

"I don't know. Everything just seems sort of—fuzzy. And hazy." Saul murmured stiffly. "I remember walking up this corridor—and I remember these cells. We walked past these twice." He motioned vaguely towards the prison bars surrounding them. "And I remember something—heavy. Next thing I know, I'm running with—"

Veriannyth lifted a sceptical brow. She did not move; nor did she question his sudden lack of words. Perhaps she sensed that he did not wish to continue. She wrinkled her nose. "The heavy thing you felt was an explosion of wooden crates and stone walls. The skeletal mages caused them to explode over your head just as we'd entered—my guess is that they'd wished to keep us inside. We made quick work of them, but you'd fallen—and we couldn't find you beneath the rubbled heap of wood and brick. Cordelia nearly had a fit—she bruised her hands pretty badly, shifting the rock and wood." Here, she paused; and it was with rather a pointed look towards the druid that she'd continued. "Anyhow, you were unconscious when we got you out from under the rubble—and you were murmuring _something_; I couldn't make it out. And you sounded—somewhat _distressed._"

Saul pursed his lips; then motioned for her to continue.

"Well—it was then that the others came. We pushed you against a wall and proceeded to—well, duel. You must see, then, how surprised we were when you got to your feet and began to battle alongside us; and we thought you were alright. But you wouldn't answer when we called, and when that skeletal warrior came up behind you—" She said, dryly. "Cordelia panicked, I guess."

"Yes. Because if I hadn't panicked, _he_—" Cordelia said, jabbing a finger accusingly into the side of the druid's head. Apparently, she'd found her bandages and herbs; and though her words were harsh, her fingers were surprisingly gentle. Saul heaved a faint sigh of relief—he'd somehow expected pain of greater extent. "—would be _dead_ by now."

"I love you too, Cordelia." Saul smirked—and he could have sworn that the pressure upon his cut increased. He grit his teeth; here, now, was the pain. "Augh! _What I mean is, thank you!_"

Veriannyth laughed as she leapt to her feet. She'd re-attached her claw-blades—and her hair had been pulled into a fresh chignon; the previous one had come loose during the skirmish. "I'm going to look around this place while you clean him up, Cordelia."

Saul opened his mouth to protest—but the words had barely begun to form upon his tongue when she disappeared into the shadows. He frowned. "It is a dangerous journey for one to take alone. I hope she does not traverse too deeply into these prisons."

Cordelia exhaled gently from behind him; the gentle, tickling sensation of cold infusion upon open flesh told him that she was distracted. Yet, a moment later, she spoke—and he was surprised to learn that she had, in fact, been paying attention to his words. "She'll be fine. She's a strong woman, Ria. I'm quite sure she can hold her own in battle." She murmured. "And if she requires aid, she has to but call for us."

"I don't—oww!" He yelped; he'd not expected the stinging feel of ointment upon his scalp. "Cordy!"

She chuckled grimly. "Sorry. But I _have_ to do this."

Saul gritted his teeth—but decided against opposing the sorceress's decision. It seemed somewhat silly to refuse aid—and he knew, instinctively, that she would refuse to leave his head alone until he submitted to bandages and ointment.

Cordelia was silent for several long minutes; and Saul could only suppose that she was deep in concentration. And yet, he was, once again, surprised when she spoke.

"Hey, Saul?"

"Hrm?" He grunted; he'd been immersed deep in another reverie.

She hesitated a moment—and he could tell that she was thinking her words over. And then, almost tentatively—"Who is Tomei?"

Saul stiffened slightly. Perhaps she'd felt his movement, for she'd lifted her hands from his scalp. He sighed quietly, shutting his eyes as he did so. "She's my sister."

"Oh." She breathed softly as she began to wrap several lengths of bandages about his head. "It's just—you were whispering her name. I heard you as you were unconscious." And then, somewhat awkwardly—"I'm sorry if you feel I am intruding. I'm just.. curious, I guess."

He did not quite know what to say; and for several long moments, he remained silent, his shoulders tense. Finally, he spoke—and his voice was not his own. "What do you want to know?"

She seemed to have finished with his bandage; for, with a gentle, soothing pat upon his shoulder, she'd lowered herself onto the ground before him. She smiled. "What's she like?"

Saul chuckled softly, shaking his head as he leaned forward to level his face to hers. "Rather like you, actually. She's a pretty little sparrow; sings like an angel, and dances like a bird upon wind. Oh, and she _hates_ it when I tease her."

Cordelia laughed softly. She drew her legs close against her chest, and placed her chin upon her knees. "How old is she?"

"Sixteen. But the day after tomorrow, she will be seventeen." He smiled wryly—yet another birthday he would be forced to miss.

"Oh!" Cordelia said—she seemed somewhat surprised. "Why aren't you with your family, then? Surely, she would wish you there on her birthday?"

Saul rolled his shoulders back into a careless, somewhat non-commital shrug. "I can't."

She frowned—then leaned closer towards him. "Why not?"

"Because." He returned her frown with a scowl; and she shrank away, her eyes widening in slight alarm. "I just _can't._"

"Saul, I—" She began, softly; and with tentative fingers, she reached out towards him, grasping his shoulder in what seemed a comforting gesture. Yet, Saul found that he simply could not stomach her touch.

He tensed his shoulders, dislodging her hand as he did so. "I am exiled, Cordelia." He muttered. "I cannot return to my clan, nor can I dwell far from them—and this is my penance, my punishment for a crime long commited. You should have realised—I never spoke of my home. I _have_ no home."

Cordelia bit her lower lip—and her eyes were somewhat narrowed as she watched him in silence. Finally, she gave a small, stiff nod; and without another sound, made her way towards a darkened corner. It was to Saul's relief that she did not press the matter further.

They were silent, now—each absorbed within their own thoughts. Truth be told, Saul did not much fancy the idea of peeling the layers of his past. How would she understand the burden he carried? To tell her would bring but two possibilites; that she would pity his fate, or that she would find his sin repulsive—and he could not bear the thought of either.

Once or twice, he thought he'd caught her watching him; and in her eyes were an odd sort of sadness. It was as though she saw his pain—but he was not much surprised by this. Cordelia did remind him somewhat of his sister—and the latter, too, could see when he was troubled. The thought almost made him smile—but he could not.

It seemed forever before Veriannyth returned; and Saul had never quite been so happy to leave Cordelia's solitary company. The awkward silence hung between them as a thick wall of ice would—she neither looked at him, nor spoke.

Perhaps Veriannyth did not notice the air of unease surrounding them; of perhaps she was simply too polite to ask. She wiped her bloodstained claw upon a piece of rag—then spoke. "I found a stairwell—I think it leads deeper into the jails. There are specters about here, but they will not harm us."

Saul nodded. "Let's keep moving, then." He muttered, pushing himself to his feet; he had no desire to sit idle.

If the hellspawned demons had caused pain and despair within the outer chambers of the monastery, it was nothing compared to the carnage depicted within the prison levels. The chambers were dark, it was true—yet the walls were slick with blood; tar-like streaks of crimson and ebon. Rats had infested the prisons; worm-tailed corpses and foul-smelling pelts littered the corners of the corridors. Every once in a while, a solitary squeak would ring within the musky darkness; both piteous and sickening.

Deeper, and deeper they went; along corridors of steel bars, and through solid-stone holding cells. There were corpses; far more than Saul found he had the stomach to imagine. Instruments of torture lined the very prisons; iron racks built upon fire pits—for the torment of fire. Cages built of sharpened daggers that turned inwards at its captive; shackles and chains upon walls tainted with streaks of blood—the mark of whips.

And within these prison cells, the subjects of torture remained, still. They were silent in death; though their eyes remained widened with fear. Many bore traces of having been bound—or otherwise chained and gagged. Even more were _limbless_—their arms, and legs having been severed and placed in ceremonial grandeur before the very irises of their lifeless eyes. But most had decayed away with time.

For the most part, the prison levels within the monastery were devoid of demons—and only occasionally did the stray translucent spirit cross their path; but the living were but ghosts to them. Soundlessly, they drifted through the walls, and thus passed from sight.

By the by, they found themselves before a great, and narrow flight of circular stairs wrought of ebon steel. It was unlike the two that they'd descended earlier; for the two were narrow, and led only to deeper parts of the prison cells. Saul narrowed his eyes slightly as he tilted his head backwards—and was rather relieved to see the silvery glow of summer's moonlight beams through the circular exit. Wordlessly, they began to climb.

The first breath of clean, crisp air brought about a fresh wave of relief for the druid; and it was with rather renewed strength that he'd pulled himself through the stone-encircled outlet. The silver glow of the crescent moon shone down upon him—and for several short moments, he marvelled at its beauty.

They did not dawdle by the Inner Cloister—but made their way hastily towards the waypoint just beyond the underground exit into the prison deeps. They were not hindered; though it was with rather lower spirits that they'd found themselves once more within the rogue encampment.

Saul glanced aside towards Cordelia; they had not spoken since their brief interlude within the monastery. Their eyes met for several short seconds; but something flickered within the lighter pair—was it fear? Saul found that he could not discern the thoughts beneath her pallid blues—and somehow, it rather worried him.

Her brows seemed to twitch ever so slightly. And then, in awkward silence, she turned her back to him and stalked away, the hem of her prussian-blue cloak billowing about her legs.

"I—uh." Veriannyth began rather stiffly; the guarded woman within her had returned. "—I'll be leaving now, then. Charsi said that she would have my blade ready by—well, now."

Saul grunted sourly, but shrugged and turned his back to her. "Have fun."

She was silent just then—and he thought that she'd gone; she had remarkably silent footsteps. Yet half a moment later, she spoke. "She cares about you, Saul. I don't know what happened back there—and I don't suppose I know either of you well enough. But if there is one thing that I _do_ know, its that she really, truly cares."

"I know." Saul murmured. Then, having found nothing else to say—"You should go see Charsi. It is late."

She _must_ have smiled—he could _hear_ it in the tone of her voice. "Goodbye, Saul. Perhaps we shall meet again someday."

He grunted dully in return; but when he'd finally turned, ready, at last, to wish a proper goodbye, she was gone.

* * *

"What am I going to do?" Cordelia exclaimed; she was aware, even then, of the unnatural shrillness of her voice. With a rather unsettled grunt, she lowered herself onto a wooden stool—then gazed up into the face of the rogues' smith.

Charsi chuckled softly, shaking her head. She did not cease to hammer upon the object of her attention; but offered, instead, a one armed shrug. "What did you do _this_ time?"

Cordelia made a face; she did not expect the smith to understand her feelings—for she had traveled beyond elation at the mere sight of her beloved family heirloom. What attention she had, surely, was focused now upon the gently shimmering hammer within the palm of her hand. "I think I've angered your cousin somewhat."

"Oh?" The smith ran a gentle forefinger along the edge of the blade upon her anvil; it glowed a bright blue for several short moments, then faded. "What happened?"

Cordelia sighed quietly, then bit down hard upon her lower lip. "Charsi, did anything happen in the past—? Anything at all that would have caused Saul's exile?"

For the first time since the return of her beloved Malus, the smith frowned; her brow creased, and her eyes narrowed ever so slightly—not with distaste, but with troubled sadness. "He told you."

"Yes—but he didn't say _why._"

Charsi pursed her lips. And gently, almost lovingly, she lowered her hammer onto the anvil—then wiped her oil-stained hands clean. "You must understand, Cordelia, that Saul bears a great burden within his being. What he has done—what he feels has been done, has caused great turmoil within him. That smile he wears—it shields what he truly feels."

Cordelia frowned—she _had_ suspected, always, that the druid held little more than joy within his being. Yet to _hear_ the truth of it somewhat overwhelmed her; frightened her. She lowered her gaze—somehow, she did not feel as if she should press the matter further. Her nose did not belong in Saul's past.

But Charsi had begun to speak once more. "You deserve to know. But I pray that you shan't think badly of him, nor pity him. He is by far a better man than that."

The sorceress felt rather numbed by the other's words—she nodded.

"Of all his sisters, Saul loved Tomei the most. As children, we, all four of us, including his youngest sister, Seirra, would spend summers together within the monastery. My elder cousins—_his_ older sisters, respectively, preferred the quiet of the libraries; Adynne and Lorelei would never find the time to join our games, somehow. Do not misunderstand—there was never a happier, nor more loving family. Certainly, they loved one another." Charsi leaned back against the wall of her tent, crossing her arms over her chest. "By the by, we grew too old—too _mature_ to run about gardens and squares anymore. Saul had met a young group of boys by then; and it was at that point in time that his relationship with Tomei was tested, and most severely. One of the boys in particular was as he was; nonchalant and carefree—and his name was Eldair Ithen. And for several long years, Saul and Eldair were inseperable; as close as friends would ever hope to be. Yet Eldair had a secret desire; and in the year of their twentieth birthdays, he sought Tomei's hand in marriage. She was fifteen."

"Naturally, she refused his hand. I think—Tomei might have had long held a grudge against him, for it was he who had stolen her brother. But Eldair was not to be refused. He—" Here, the smith's voice broke; and for several short moments, she was merely content to breathe. When she spoke again, her words were rushed, and her tone, grim. "—he watched her as she bathed within the river. And—and he—"

Cordelia inhaled softly; then shut her eyes. She did not want to hear the rest of the sentence; much less than she wanted to force the smith to say it. "No, it's quite alright. You don't have to."

Charsi gulped—nodding faintly. "Saul, he was furious when he discovered the truth. And he could not tell his sisters, nor could he seek aid in his parents. Such a situation would surely have brought shame upon his family." She murmured. "Even now—he, alone bears the burden of his sister's innocence. Tomei herself confided in me; and the rest of the family know naught."

Cordelia shook her head slightly. "I—no, Charsi. Please stop."

It was as if every fibre within her being had been rent apart. The darkness of one such tale brought shards of ice into the very depths of her heart—surely, Saul did not deserve such torment. Yet the reality of the situation was wounding; she could not imagine herself in his shoes.

"Charsi. Is my blade ready?"

Cordelia blinked the tears from her eyes; then offered a rather watery smile towards Veriannyth. "Oh, hello, Ria."

Veriannyth lifted a dark brow with pronounced airiness; she had apparently sensed the tension in the air. Yet she smiled, inclining her head gently towards the sorceress as she took a hold of a procurred blade; Charsi had handed it wordlessly to her before disappearing into the darkness of her tent. "Thank you!" She called after the retreating back of the smith.

"I—" Cordelia began; then stopped. "—are you leaving?"

Veriannyth chuckled faintly. Her deep-jade eyes studied the blade with obvious wonder—and in a precise, yet gentle movement, she slipped it into a somewhat simple sheath of leather and rope. "I have my blade—and my people require such defense as can be offered to them. I _must_ leave."

The sorceress started to smile; but found that she could only nod. "Good luck, I—I guess."

"Safe winds to you, Cordelia." Veriannyth smiled over her shoulder as she strode away. "Take good care of him."

"Take good care—what?" Cordelia frowned slightly—then got to her feet. "Veriannyth!"

But she only laughed as she stepped casually into the waypoint; then the sorceress blinked, and she was gone.

She stood still for several long moments, but the smith did not return. Truth be told, Cordelia did not expect her to—she was clearly distraught. But there were now other things, other thoughts lingering within the sorceress's mind.

Saul.

Cordelia nibbled gently upon her lower lip; and then, with a final glance into the smith's tent, strode away into the darkness of the night. She felt as if she knew where the druid was.

She was not disappointed.

He sat, alone, upon a boulder by the banks of the river Adura, his legs crossed beneath him. His hands were clasped together—and it was with a solemn stillness that he stared into the rippling depths of the crystal-clear water. Cordelia thought she saw him shiver; but did not much blame him. He had, after all, much reason to grieve.

She started towards him; but it was in rather a softened voice that she'd spoken. "You killed him, didn't you? Eldair? And it is due to his sin that you are exiled." It was not a question.

He lifted his gaze to meet hers; and she was startled to find tears within the deep grey eyes. He did not speak.

She held her breath as she walked towards him, her footsteps soft upon the damp soil. Then, with gentle hands, she pulled him close into a warm embrace; and there, in the bitter silence of night, he wept into the enfolding warmth of her welcoming arms.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I actually planned on releasing this chapter at the end of November, as a surprise chapter. But I got to thinking about Saul's backstory, and I couldn't help myself. So here it is! Don't get too comfortable, though. I'll probably not update until mid-December, and if I do.. well, we'll see. Exams come first!

Thanks go out to **Ophelion**; I hope I've got enough gory descriptions in here to sate your likes! And to **Virali**; see? Less Saul abuse! Physically, that is! Emotionally—well.. ehehe.

Also, thanks go out to **StoppingTheMotorOfTheWorld** for the lovely, and most insightful reviews. I've taken your advice and have changed my summary. It probably still sucks, but I think its better than the last one. I hated that one too, actually. Hehe.

I'm now going to throw a game to you guys. Each of you (If you're reading this fic, I mean **you**. Even if you don't review) gets **one** question; just one, about anything in general about this fic. I reserve the right to hold back important information/spoilers, but if you've got a question about say, Cordy's favourite colour, or how old Saul is, or anything at all, feel free to ask. Remember to leave your e-mail if you're commenting anonymously so I can send you your answer!

Thanks again, and see you guys December! Please remember to R and R, yeah? Reviews make happy authors, which in turn make good authors. Ciao!


	16. Chapter 15: Firestorm Sky

* * *

**Chapter 15: Firestorm Sky**

* * *

_Eat._

"What?"

_Food is fuel to the human body. You must eat._

"I'm not hungry."

_Your name be damned, druid—I swear, if you don't cease this display of childish depression right this instant—_

"You'll do what to hurt me, exactly? You're a bird."

_You leave me with no other choice._

And she leaned forward to wrench a lock of hair from the very roots of his head.

Saul yelped, reaching up to rub at the top of his head as he blinked the tears from his eyes. The hawk flapped her wings several times before coming to rest upon the barrel beside his bed—then gave him a look that said all too well that he'd deserved it. He scowled.

"It is at times like these, Ceres, that I realise precisely how vicious your kind can be. I ached a lot less before I met you." He grumbled.

She clicked her beak impatiently, and stuck a clawed leg out towards the platter of food beside her; bread, cheese, and chicken. Cordelia had brought it by earlier.

_Eat, or I shall do it again._

Saul narrowed his eyes, but reached towards the platter. "I still don't see why a full-grown man should listen to one little bird."

Ceres pecked several times at her wing feathers. She did this often; and when she was bored. _I'm highly persuasive._

Saul could hardly contain a snort of amusement; but she'd given him a stony stare, and he was obliged to fall silent once more. Instead, he picked up his fork, and had almost begun to poke into the chicken—but then decided against it. It seemed somewhat rude, what with Ceres beside him, so he speared a chunk of bread-and-cheese with his fork, and took a bite. It tasted like sandpaper.

_Most men I know of don't lose their appetites no matter what the situation._

Saul made a face as he took a long gulp of water. "I don't understand why everyone is so troubled about this. It's not as though I've lost the ability to function as a human being."

Ceres blinked placidly at him for several long seconds, her dewy-jade eyes thoughtful and searching. _Function how?_

"I fought the demons within the Monastery Cathedral." He began.

_With Cordelia's help._

"I cleaned—literally cleaned the Monastery Cathedral. It's spotless now. No blood." Saul frowned. He could see where the conversation was heading.

_Again, with Cordelia's help._ Ceres remarked. _Ah, wait—It should have been the other way around. You helped Cordelia to wash the blood away, didn't you?_

"What makes you say that?" Saul protested—but she gave him another look. Scowling, he took a hold of his fork, and with renewed vigor stabbed at a piece of chicken.

_Women—they are better at cleaning, and other such household duties. _The hawk shifted her footing mildly, clearly unconcerned of the fate of her airborne-kin upon the druid's plate. _Incidentally, you're getting chicken all over your tunic._

He swore.

She seemed rather amused as she clicked her beak several times. _What else have you been doing, then?_

"I helped the rogues move their belongings into the outer parts of Monastery. Did you know that they were returning there?"

_Ah, yes. I knew. But it makes sense._ She ruffled her tail feathers slightly. _It has been weeks since it was cleared out. And all that remains are the deeper levels of the catacombs, yes?_

"And Andariel." Saul added, in an undertone. He didn't quite like the thought.

Ceres seemed to consider his words for a moment. _If Andariel remains, still, within the catacombs, how is it safe for the rogues to return to the Monastery?_

"Kashya has stationed several rogues on guard in the Cathedral. So far, none have strayed from the Catacombs. It is quite safe. Besides, the rogues will be cleaning out the barracks first—that is where they will reside for now. That is, until Andarial is—" Here, he paused. Somehow, he found it quite a chore to say the word upon the tip of his tongue. "—well, defeated, I suppose."

_Are you quite sure you want to do that?_ Ceres watched him dubiously.

"I don't have much of a choice, do I?" Saul countered—then leaned over to set his empty plate aside.

_I suppose not. But I wish you well, druid._

Saul smirked. "Why? Do you suppose that I wouldn't return?"

Ceres flapped her wings briefly, lifting herself into the air and coming to land upon his head. _Do not speak lightly of such things, you fool. But do return—I have become rather fond of you. I shan't have anyone else to torment, if you were dead._

"That _really_ puts into perspective precisely how much you love me." Saul said, dryly—but he smiled. "Don't worry your pretty feathers, though. I'll be fine."

_Good._

* * *

The walls were of khaki bricks; and they ran about the city in a perfect rectangle, enclosing its people in what safety it could offer. Minute beads of sands, gold and grey, surrounded these walls on the other side, ravaged into sandstorms by ruthless winds. The streets were of copper and grey cobblestones; yet they were empty. It was as if it was a city devoid of life; devoid of laughter and of love.

Most certainly it was devoid of _love_.

Her footsteps were but petal soft upon the ground—she could not hear herself walking. Someone, _a man_, was calling out to her, but she could not turn. Her hands seemed bound to her sides; yet her legs were mobile. And she walked, walked towards the edge of town—towards the harbour front. The seas were rippled with colours, blues and greens neath' the golden light of the sun.

He called out to her again—and with a pang, she found herself recognising the voice; and it was a voice that she did not wish to hear.

The waves came upon the city's edge in thundering crashes—yet they were muted to the sorceress's ears.

Cordelia!

She inhaled sharply—then shut her eyes. The winds of the sea whipped at her hair and tugged at her clothes.

Cordelia!

Without so much as a second's worth of hesitation, she lifted her hands—and dove headfirst over the edge into the watery depths below.

* * *

Someone was holding her.

How could that be so, when she was dead? Was this death's embrace, welcoming her into the realms of the afterlife? But surely, death's embrace was cold. Yet even as she stirred, the arms about her quavering form tightened, if just a touch—and they were warm as summer's night.

A dream.

Cordelia was only faintly aware of dawn's first light as she opened her eyes. The morning draft chilled the air about her, and she shuddered. Yet beads of sweat were trailing along the side of her cheek; or were they tears? She no longer knew.

But the arms about her were familiar. And the deep green robes upon which her cheek was pressed were familiar. It was Saul.

"Cordy—what's wrong?"

She inhaled sharply, shaking her head as she buried her face into the folds of cloth upon his chest. It felt strangely comfortable. "Its nothing." She murmured, her voice muffled. "Just a dream."

For several long minutes, he was silent; but he stoked absently at her hair. When he spoke once more, his voice was low. "You sounded as if you were scared."

Cordelia bit her lip. How much had the druid gleaned from her nightmares? What did he know?

The truth of it all was that she was scared. It was not the first time such a dream had haunted her sleep; and she had a vague feeling that it would not be the last, either. The city of Lut Gholein would haunt her for many moons to come—yet the city itself was but a ripple in the sea of unrest that was her subconscious mind.

"Perhaps I was." She lifted her gaze just a touch, then crooked a weak smile. "But it was just a dream, Saul. I'm quite alright, I promise."

"If you say so." He mirrored her smile—then made a face as he loosened his hold of her, lifting her chin gently. "Even if I can tell for a fact that you're lying."

Cordelia blinked several times. To find the druid in such close proximity brought about a fresh wave of butterflies to her stomach. His face was but inches from hers. She coughed. "I'm—fine. Don't worry."

He nodded; but something in his eyes told her that he didn't quite trust her. Cordelia supposed that he had every reason to mistrust—she was, after all, shivering with fright from so simple a dream. Yet she took several long and calming breaths. And with a small smile, pulled away from him.

She thought she could see a slight flash of—something within his deep grey orbs; but it was gone in a second. "I should—get dressed. The rogues are moving the first of their belongings today, aren't they?"

The druid pushed himself to his feet, nodding. "Yes. But you needn't hurry—the rogues have only just begun packing."

"That's the hardest part of the journey. Packing."

"Why's that?" Saul strode towards the exit-flaps of the tent; he turned to face the sorceress, and tilted his head slightly. His hair fell rather rogue-ishly into his eyes as he smiled somewhat, as though expecting an answer.

Cordelia could feel the increasingly rapid beating of her heart against her chest—but try as she might, she simply could not understand why. He often looked at her that way; and it had never before brought her to such lengths of breathlessness. _Damned druid._

Nonetheless, it was with rather a careless cadence that she'd spoken. "Well—firstly, there's all the rogues' belongings to pack. And then there are the tents, which need to be collapsed. And let's not forget the livestock."

Saul chuckled quietly under his breath—he seemed mildly aware of her discomfort. Yet he chose to ignore it. "Then it looks as if we're going to have a busy day."

"Yes. And you standing there, preventing me from dressing isn't helping any." Cordelia smirked. She waved a hand impatiently towards the door. "Go on now—go look for Kashya. I'm sure she's got plenty of things for you to do."

He gave her a small, rather unfathomable smile, then turned to exit. Yet, he paused, and in a voice both quiet and solemn, said, "Thank you. For everything."

And then he left.

* * *

Before the doors of the cathedral within the monastery, there stood a tree—tall and thick-trunked, strong and deep-rooted. Its bark was silver, and its branches, slender. Many centuries had bypassed the old tree—and it had grown, and grown, and grown since its sapling days. It stood thrice as tall as the monastery gates, and was second only to the bell-tower of the Tamoe Highlands. It was a crab-apple tree, and was the pride of many a rogue sister.

The siege of the monastery had brought about an aura of sinister darkness—a never-ending shadow of gloom and darkness, destined to forever befoul the goodness of the cathedral. Yet the mere presence of the crab-apple tree was enough to cast light into the shadow—it, alone, had remained untainted by evil. Surely, in time, it would help to restore the goodness of the cathedral?

Saul found himself gazing in silent wonder at the ancient tree. Ivory petals, faintly tinged with pinks and reds drifted freely from its outstretched branches; they fell upon the ground as a blanket of summertime snow. The ground directly beneath the tree was red, still, from the blood—yet he could not help but feel that it would all eventually fade away. The evil would disappear; all in due time.

They made their way slowly into the cathedral. Saul could tell that Cordelia had little desire to traverse deeper into the catacombs—she had done everything in her power to delay the return into the catacombs. He found that he could not blame her; the gruesome sights of horror that had met their eyes was far too garish a nightmare to tolerate. She'd been pale the entire time they'd fought, and could not smile, even when they'd returned to the encampment.

Now, even as she walked, there was a pronounced lag in her step that told him all too well that she wished nothing more than to run away. Yet she took step after step, her face screwed into a mirage of grim doggedness, as though she was determined to see the end of that which plagued the monastery. The sight of her rather emboldened. He knew that which he needed to face—but he would face it fearlessly. For those moments in time, Cordelia was the very quintessence of his bravery.

It had been but three weeks since the cleansing of the cathedral—but the physical change, at the very least, was immediate. No longer did the mingled blood of rogues and demons stain the deep grey walls. No longer were the tapestries torn, and no longer were the windows soiled with mud and slush. The smell of blood, which had hitherto lingered strong within the air, had diminished somewhat; and it had been replaced with the sweet scent of crab-apple blossoms. The broken cathedral pews had been burnt, and the altar, throughly cleansed. It was true that the cathedral was a far cry from the perfection of its former glory; but in the light of such dark times, it was as best as it could be. The corpses, the rogues had removed—and they lay, now, in piles of light and darkness upon the vast grounds of the Tamoe Highlands.

Saul held the door open for Cordelia—then strode silently into the chamber. The bright summer sun shone through the stained-glass windows in shafts of prismatic hues. The pews had not yet been replaced; and within the vast emptiness of the cathedral, every single sound was magnified ten-fold. The druid could hear the soft echoing of his footsteps upon the ivory marble floor.

By the by, they found themselves once more within the dark, dank deep of the monastery catacombs. Many days had passed since they'd fought their way through the chambers beyond the first two flights of stairs; Andariel's demons were great in numbers as they were diverse in race. Demons and undead flooded the corridors, wielding both magic and blood-stained blade with deadly skill. But the chambers were silent now. Andariel's minions were gone—save for those beneath the next stairwell. Always, always, beneath the next stairwell.

"How many floors did the rogues tunnel through?" Cordelia muttered through gritted teeth. She seemed somewhat annoyed—and it was with rather a severe eye that she'd squinted into the gloomy darkness of the descending stairwells. "These are the third flight of stairs we've found—do you think she lies in wait for us beneath these steps?"

Saul shrugged. "I don't think so." He admitted blandly. He was rather loathe to admit it—but the never-ending darkness was beginning to wear upon him. The druid much rather preferred the warmth of the sun and the touch of the wind upon his face. The catacombs were merely—there was no other word to describe it, but dreary. "I should think that we'd hear some form of sound. But it seems quite silent down there."

Cordelia scowled. "That could also mean that they're lying in wait for us." She said, pointedly.

Saul chuckled softly, then shook his head. "I don't think so." He repeated. "Come, now, Cordelia—why the long face?"

Truth be told, the druid was somewhat concerned for her. She'd said very little since their morning prelude—and had not mentioned the nightmares of her sleep at all. In fact, she seemed all but determined to forget that such an incident had occurred.

To Saul, at the very least, such denial was unhealthy for the soul.

She narrowed her eyes ever so slightly, her pupils contracting to form mere points. Clearly, he'd hit a nerve—and she was annoyed, now. "I've told you already. It's nothing." She snapped, tossing her hair haughtily over her shoulder. "Now, are we going or not?"

And, with a low, rather cat-like sound and a scowl upon her face, she turned her back to the druid, and made her way into the darkness below.

* * *

_Spiders._

The chamber was filled with spiders; great, hairy beasts the colour of blood, with sharp, clawed pincers and legs of darkest black. They crawled from the walls, and from holes in the ground; and it was but mere seconds before they encircled the intruders of their dark, dark home.

Saul swallowed hard. His fingers tightened, somewhat subconsciously, upon his staff as the spiders clicked their pincers. They were hungry—hungry for blood, and hungry for human flesh.

Beside him, Cordelia's breathing was rushed, and her skin, pale. Her eyes were widened with unspoken fear, though her mouth was set in a thin line. She held onto the druid's cloak with her free hand, the knuckles of her slender fingers white with the force.

They had not encountered such monsters within the other chambers—and it was just as well, for they were clearly deadly in great numbers. Even without checking, Saul could tell that their pincers were filled with poison; dangerous, and deadly.

He swallowed again, then gave his staff an idle twirl. He both hated and feared spiders—but found himself attempting bravery, if only to bolster his companion.

"Don't be frightened. It'll be quite alright." He whispered softly into her ear—and was gladdened to feel the grip of his cloak slacken slightly. For a moment or two, her eyes met his; then she nodded, and straightened.

And just like that, the spiders scuttled forwards, their pincers clicking with bloodlust and hunger.

Her cries of fearful desperation were drowned beneath the sound of clicking pincers as the battle began. Saul swung his staff to and fro, his lips twitching grimly whenever he felt the hard wood connect against the spiders' bellies. But he held onto the sorceress, and she, onto him; and together, they swung to and fro, a circular pendulum of fastened hands and outstretched staffs. Yet, after several short seconds of mad flailing and hastily aimed fireballs, the clammy hand within the druid's hand shivered slightly—and without quite meaning to, he released it. He regretted almost instantly.

"Ach!"

Saul gasped, whirling around in position. He quite forgot to feel relieved, even when the head of his staff made contact with three spiders, one after the other. "Cordelia!"

The encompassing darkness of the catacombs made it almost impossible for the druid to spot her; yet he could hear her screams of fright. But he was almost certain that she was holding her own—for within mere seconds of their seperation, the tell-tale explosions of her fireballs rang loud within the air. The never-ending bursts of flames lit the chamber, and brought about an odd sort of warmth within the clammy walls.

It seemed half of forever later before the ground was littered with crimson corpses—and they were distinctly rubbery, and somewhat glossy in texture. Saul found himself wincing in disgust; he sidestepped the corpses, and the puddles of oozing, lime-coloured venom as he made his way over towards the sorceress.

She was shaking; literally quaking with fright. As Saul knelt beside her, she leaned forward, clinging helplessly onto his robes as a frightened child would. Had she not looked so fearful, he would have found it comical.

"Hush, Cordy. Hush. I'm here." He whispered softly, wrapping one arm about her as he ran his fingers through her hair. "Don't worry; they're gone."

She took several gulps of air, her eyes watering ever so slightly. "Spiders—" Her voice was low; almost a croak. "—not good, no. Spiders—spiders bad."

Saul bit down upon his lower lip—it was getting increasingly difficult to keep from laughing. But he held her close, and merely continued to stroke at her hair. Several minutes passed in silence—and Saul found himself gazing about the chamber. The walls were slick; covered in a mixture of water, blood, mud, venom, and an odd sort of slime that the druid could not identify. Several wooden torches lined the walls; and these illuminated the chamber, however dimly. There were dust-covered crates and barrels in corners, and fragments of splintered wood littered the ground amidst the leathery spider-skins.

It was then that Saul saw the crumbling doorway.

It led, without a doubt, into the final chamber; to the final battle, and to the Maiden of Anguish. For upon the deep grey bricks atop the doorway were etched the verses:

---

The end hath come for thee;

Ye mortal of flesh and bone.

Thou hath seen the end of thy life;

And thy destiny is written in stone.

---

For thou hath chosen to disturb;

That which festers within flame.

The Maiden of Anguish hath arisen;

And her anger, thou cannot hope to tame.

---

"—that's quite some verse." Cordelia had lifted her gaze; and her eyes were slightly bloodshot as she looked towards the druid. "Do you suppose this leads to her?"

Saul offered a small smile towards the sorceress, then nodded. "Yes."

She watched him silently for several long moments. But when she spoke, she was no longer shaking. "You want to go right now?"

Her eyes were steely, and somewhat determined; yet Saul found that he could detect traces of weariness within the pale blue depths. He chuckled faintly—then shook his head. "No, Cordy. Not right now."

She seemed rather relieved; for, with a faint smile, she'd exhaled, then shut her eyes. "Alright." She murmured.

Saul crooked a tiny smile, and then reached over to pat gently at her cheek. "Come on. Let's get out of here—this place is depressing."

They made their way to the surface in silence; Saul in the lead. He held Cordelia's hand as they walked, and she did not protest—her small, slender fingers were warm in his palm. Saul decided that he rather liked the feel of it.

Twilight had fallen by the time they'd found themselves within the relative calm of the outer cloister. The skies were cloudless; pinks, yellows, and oranges. It was a firestorm sky—a magnificent display of prismatic colours and nature's magic. For several long moments, they merely stood in silence, hand in hand; each absorbed within thoughts of their own, entranced by the Magic. And when the sun melted away into night, and when the Magic had faded away into nothingness, the warmth remained; and the hope remained. The world was all the brighter.

And perhaps, just perhaps, by the end of tomorrow, the Magic would become reality.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Whee! Chapter 15! AND, my exams are officially OVER! Which means, you guys, that I can now write as much as I want! So be prepared for a bombardment of chapters! I may update every few days, or every week. (Yes, I'm feeling that crazy.)

I am aware, however, that this chapter is not as… good as the other chapters. In fact, its probably one of the weaker filler chapters, because I had to jump a lot from timeframe to timeframe, and from POV to POV. I hope it wasn't confusing, at the very least, because I do like the chapter name. I'd attribute the relative crappiness of this chapter to the fact that I've been on hiatus quite a while. In that duration, I'd suffered from writer's block. Terrible, terrible. Here's hoping the block doesn't carry onto the next chapter!

Thanks go out especially to **Ophelion**, who's been nothing if not exceptionally kind to me throughout my exam/writer's block/artist's block period. This chapter, and Saul, in general, is dedicated to her. Thanks, Phyl. I owe you. .

Also, many thanks to **Phreno**! Who's returned to the Saul goodness after a long hiatus! And her reviews, and return made me giggle! Thanks, Phreno!

Next up: **Virali**, thanks for making the time to read/review my fic. You've no idea how much they mean to me. Really.

Thanks go out also to **Harold**, for the most insightful review and the fav. And **NathanDavis**; I hope this chapter wasn't too long! Also to **BloodyFingersInc** and **FantasyFreak4Life** for the favourites, and **BloodHeron** for the alert.

Christmas wishlist: **REVIEWS!** Thanks, darlings, and keep reading and reviewing, and look out for **Chapter 16: The Maiden of Anguish!**

Emmy


	17. Chapter 16: The Maiden of Anguish

* * *

**Chapter 16: The Maiden of Anguish**

* * *

_Early morning sunlight._

_The warmth of a golden summer's day._

_The gentle sounds of water upon stone._

_And the wind, smooth and cool as silk upon his face._

Saul awoke with a jerk. For several short seconds, he blinked blearily, deep grey eyes darting from corner to corner of the deserted encampment. The lush green grass felt comfortably prickly beneath his robes. It was a while before he was aware of the gently smoking embers crackling softly at his feet; remnants of their bonfire of the previous night. But the fire was not his only source of warmth.

He shifted his gaze towards the sleeping sorceress within his arms. She looked at peace, the faintest of smiles lingering upon her face. His arm was draped about her slender waist; and upon his hand rested _hers_, warm and gentle.

She slept bonelessly, like a tired child. Saul found that the sight amused him somewhat; she looked so very innocent and angelic. But he had enough sense to see that she was no more an angel than he was, himself. Humankind were known, among other things, for imperfection, and he was not fool enough to deem himself, nor any other, faultless. Angels were best left within Heaven.

The rogue encampment was devoid of human life when they'd returned, wearied from the day's battle. The rogues had returned to their beloved monastery; and the encampment was but a silent, and empty stronghold. Yet it was ideal for a night of sweet, undisturbed slumber. They'd lain side by side, gazing up into the vastness of the night sky. He vaguely remembered the gentle touch of her hand upon his, and the feel of her crimson head upon his shoulder. They'd spent their time talking—and when they could speak no further, found silent companionship in one another.

As gently as he could, Saul attempted to release his hold of the sorceress, but found that he simply could not; for her fingers were entwined firmly within his. She grumbled vaguely under her breath as she stirred, then drew herself closer against him. The look upon her sleeping face made him chuckle.

_What he would give to simply lean over and kiss her eyelids—to awaken her with kisses._

His thoughts were broken into as she stirred. And then, as though God had been listening to his heart's desire, her eyes fluttered open; and the confusion within the pallid blues was broken as recognition and realisation registered within the depths of her pupils. She managed a weak smile—then flushed severely as she came to notice the touch of his hand upon her abdomen. With a soft, rather mortified cough, she pulled away from his embrace, then sat up straight.

"Good morning." She murmured, running her fingers through her sleep-toussled hair. Her cheeks were burning.

Saul chuckled softly to himself, allowing himself a quick shake of his head as he got to his feet. "Good morning."

"What time is it?" Cordelia tilted her head gently to the side. And then, with a small, vague chuckle—"The encampment feels so different, somehow. I never thought I'd see it this empty."

"Me either." Saul said. He stretched his arms out over his head; and his joints shifted in place, emitting several faint, popping noises. "Sorry." He added, rather apologetically—for Cordelia was eyeing him in apparent disgust.

"Mark my words; when you've aged as much as Deckard Cain has, you'll come running to me, complaining that your joints ache." She said—but she was grinning, and rather deviously. "Then I'll laugh. At you."

"Really now?" He lifted an amused eyebrow. "You are planning on remaining by my side that long, my dear?"

She fell silent just then—and, though it could be but his imagination, Saul thought he saw her smile fading ever so slightly. Yet she recovered quickly, even managing the smallest of chuckles as she pushed herself to her feet.

"I jest." Cordelia smirked faintly—but her voice was terse. "I don't suppose I shall live that long; at least, I _daren't_ suppose it, what with the _activity_ we have planned for today."

"Ah, that." Saul muttered. His throat had gone rather dry. He had not forgotten—but he had little desire to traverse into the depths of the monastery again. Yet he had no choice; he had chosen his path, and there would be no turning away.

They spent their morning in rather a somber fashion, each absorbed in thoughts of their own. The severity of the battle ahead was anticipated; and though neither felt the need to speak their thoughts aloud, they knew that _the other_, too, was loathe to face the Maiden of Anguish. By all accounts, she sounded quite the fearsome demoness. Saul could only suppose that Cordelia was scared; yet he knew that she, like himself, was grimly determined to see the demoness finished. She bore her fear with the courage and daring of a dutious warrior; and to Saul, it was almost _princesslike_.

It was only all too soon that the sun reached her zenith; and it came to be that their return to the monastery could no longer be put off. They'd delayed the journey for many a good hour now, some of which were spent bathing in the crystal-clear waters of the Adura river. They'd feasted, also, upon a considerably sumptuous morn' meal of bread, pheasant, and berries. But they were silent and grim for the most part of their delay—for the threat of Andariel's shadow loomed over their minds, both conscious and subconscious.

The cathedral was to be found in a state of perpetual and impenetrable silence when first they'd returned. The day was far from ended; yet the skies had begun to darken. It was but seconds; seconds, before the rain began to fall. Crimson streaks of lightning streaked through the sky, accompanied by the harsh, echoing sounds of a furious thunder. Perhaps the Maiden of Anguish knew of their imminent arrival—and perhaps she was angered by such impudence and such audacity as shown by them.

Saul gritted his teeth; then looked towards Cordelia. She offered a vague, rather feeble smile—but reached out with her free hand to take a hold of his. But a soft cough sounded within the air—and it reverberated within the vast emptiness of the cathedral. Clearly shocked, the sorceress froze—then lowered her hand, her expression falling ever so slightly. Saul could very well understood why; the cough belonged to one he had little forbearance to confront at present.

_Kashya._

They stood by the circular, descending stairwells into the monastery catacombs; the Rogues' Captain, and their Lieutenant. The former looked nothing short of edgy and tense, and her shoulders were stiff with unspoken determination—but the latter was, by far, less rigid in stature. In fact, in comparison with Kashya, Liene seemed at absolute peace with the Sanctuary. She slanted her head gently towards the druid, and towards the sorceress—but the captain seemed less inclined to show civility. Indeed, her expression was that of an angry huntress; her steely teal orbs flashing ever so slightly even as she took the sight of them in. Perhaps he was imagining things, Saul thought, but she seemed just a touch—annoyed with Cordelia. Her lips seemed thinner than ever as she inclined her head towards the sorceress; but how could that be so? Cordelia had done nothing to incense the captain so.

It was all rather puzzling to the druid—but his mind was not quite inclined to think on such a trivial matter. After all, Kashya often scowled that way. There was no reason to suppose that her expression at present was a show of animosity towards the sorceress.

"Kashya. Liene." Saul began—the silence was beginning to wear upon his already-anxious nerves. He was somewhat relieved to find the captain relaxing her limbs somewhat.

"Where were the both of you?" She said, her voice dangerously low.

Cordelia did not answer; perhaps she, too, had sensed the aura of deep hatred emanating from within the captain's being. Saul cleared his throat—then straightened. "We returned to the encampment last night. It was better suited as a place of rest. At the very least, it is very, very still and peaceful there." And then, feeling as though he'd better apologise—"I am sorry if the lack of our presence has worried you, Kashya. Rest assured it shall not happen again."

Kashya narrowed her eyes slightly, but did not retort immediately. Perhaps she knew that Liene was rolling her eyes behind her back. The sight almost made Saul chuckle—but he did not. "You are ready to face _her?_"

Saul shrugged, rubbing mildly at the back of his head. "It's now, or never, isn't it?" Cordelia managed the weakest of nods beside him—she seemed rather ashamed of herself, for some odd reason. Her cheeks were flushed to an extremity of crimson; but all about the twin patches of red, her face was deathly pale.

"You're scared." It was not a question—but a statement. Liene was studying him intently, her jade eyes alit with mild curiousity.

"Of course I am." Saul said, dryly. It amused him somewhat to discover that he was not at all embarrassed to admit such a thing. Gone were the days of pretencious bravado—the truth was much better a substitude for that. "I might die."

"Bite your tongue. No-one's going to die." Kashya muttered bitterly; but her eyes were fixed upon Cordelia, who seemed, very clearly, distraught under the intensity of such scrutiny—and was with rather pronounced discomfort that the latter cleared her throat, and shifted her footing somewhat timidly.

"I hope not." Cordelia had finally deigned it time to speak; yet her voice was but a low, faint murmur. She strode out from behind Saul—then made her way towards the stairs, squinting down through the dimly-lit steps. "Shouldn't we be—well, on our way?"

Her words struck some chord of amusement within the druid. He smirked; it would appear that the sorceress feared the Demoness Andariel much less than she did the rogues' captain. Her sudden display of gungho readiness to enter into the catacombs once more was proof of such a sentiment.

"Ah, yes. I daresay it _is_ time." Saul said, rather brightly. He was quite sure that Liene had not failed to notice the false cheer in his voice, and hear the tremors of anxiety within his all-too-formal words; for her expression had changed somewhat. She seemed rather dubious of him at present. "Come, Cordelia. Let us go."

"Wait." Liene began, then reached out with her bow to block his way. "You honestly think that the _two_ of you, _alone_, could defeat the _Maiden of Anguish?_"

Cordelia bit her lip. "Well, if we don't go _at all_, we'll most certainly have eliminated our chances of defeating her." She said, blandly. "But I jest. We have to defeat her by all means necessary—and even if it is _just_ the two of us."

Liene rolled her eyes once more—then straightened, and in one, fluid motion, slung her bow over her shoulder. "Kashya and I have talked things over—and we are going to come with the two of you."

"If you will have us." Kashya added—but there was a superiority to her tone that told the druid that she knew, all too well, that they could not refuse her offer. Such a refusal would be both rude and stupid.

Cordelia seemed somewhat dismayed; but if she was, she hid her true emotions with a smile of great welcome. "I shall be glad of it." And then, aside, so that only Saul could hear, _"If I die in there, there's a chance it was Kashya who killed me."_

Saul almost laughed, but bit his tongue back. It would not do to offend the captain in such a circumstance. Instead, he nodded, and offered a small bow at the waist. "I, too, will be honoured by your aid."

No more was said just then. Instead, they gazed from one another—from Liene, with a rather dry sort of countenance, towards Kashya, who had her steely teal orbs fixed upon the druid. Saul, however, had eyes only for Cordelia—but she'd rolled her shoulders back into a mild shrug, and without further delay, began to descend into the gloomy darkness beneath the cathedral floors.

* * *

It was utter, complete chaos.

The stiffling heat within the final chambers of the catacombs was near overwhelming. Wall after wall of crimson and orange flames burnt bright from corner to corner—and the cracked foundation of the grey stone floors was but a pool in which the blood of thousands was collected. The corpses were many, and the stench of charred, rotting flesh drifted freely about the humidity of the horror-filled indoors.

They'd disposed of Andariel's minions with ease—they were, after all, but fledgling demons from the lower rank-classes of the hell-spawned clans. It was but several seconds before their broken bodies fell amongst those of Life—but they were hurriedly, and unceremoniously kicked into the aforementioned pool of blood. And then, there were but the doors—the double doors into the lair of Andariel, which were carved of teak and ash. But the shine of their lacquer had been long faded with time and use; they were naught but barriers now.

"This is it." Kashya grunted, running her sleeve across her mouth; it came away bloody, but she ignored the crimson stains. "She lies just beyond these doors."

"She will know that we are here." Cordelia muttered. Saul noted, with grim admiration, that she sounded less ready to flee. In fact, there was a steely resolve in her eyes that was not unlike that of Kashya's.

Liene nodded faintly. Her knuckles were white—for, gripping her bow as hard as she was, had drained her hand of blood. She was silent.

"I have no doubt of that." Saul said. He gazed towards Cordelia, who nodded, though it was almost unnoticeable; so minute was the magnitude of the movement. But, he took several steps towards the sorceress, then leaned into her ear. "I'll look after you." He whispered. "Don't worry."

Cordelia seemed somewhat cheered by his words—for several short seconds, at the very least, a weak smile graced her lips. But Kashya had coughed—and Saul thought he saw a trace of envious hatred within the teal orbs. And it was thus that Cordelia drew away from him, her jaw taut.

"Come now. We have no time for words." Liene began. She pulled an arrow from within her quiver; then drew her bowstring, notching the arrow as she did so.

Saul nodded—then stepped towards the doors. He took but several short seconds to breathe; and on the count of three, kicked, hard, upon the ancient ash—and the doors fell away as he found himself suddenly, and dangerously ingulfed within spontaneous bursts of poisonous flames. The dust had barely cleared away, when the ear-splitting shriek pierced the air—and it was a cry of feral rage.

_The Maiden of Anguish was upon them._

"Now, you shall die, maggots!"

* * *

The rancid bursts of dark green flames could be described in but one word; overwhelming. It was accursed fire; a fire sired within Hell. It was tainted—poisonous. Its fumes were emerald; a toxic sight to behold.

Fire had been the element of her choosing—yet why was she now frightened of it? Could she not generate the heat of a million stars within the very palm of her hand? But this fire; this alien, green fire frightened her. Surely, it would ravage her whole; mind, body, and soul, should it seek to kill.

Yet the accursed fire was the least of her worries.

Cordelia never saw the motion of the metallic pincers; but her ears were true. She could hear the sharp pattering of pointed feet upon the ground—and had only just enough strength in her to bite her tongue down, swallowing the scream that threatened to erupt from within her throat.

The Maiden of Anguish stood to a height of about twice that of the sorceress's. Long, stringy hair the colour of blood cascaded down her the length of her bare back—but upon closer inspection, Cordelia saw that they were, in fact, serpents; great, crimson beasts with fangs of silvery-blue. Her eyes were but hues lighter than her hair—a mix of red, orange, and amber, and they were narrowed into mere slits; burning bright with all the hatred of Hell.

Yet there was but one anomaly about the demoness that caught the sorceress's eye. It was not the fact that she had chosen to ignore the uses of armor; nor that she was nude, save for the blood-stained loincloth wrapped firmly about her waist. It was not even the appalling display of live serpents upon her head.

The anomaly that drew the sorceress's eyes, and fear, was that Andariel was, in fact, a demoness in the form of a _spider_.

And it was thus that Cordelia found herself rooted to the ground in fear—for her dread of spiders was great. To suddenly find herself in the presence of one of this size brought her to new heights of nausea; and, worsening the situation was the fact that her heart was thumping heavily against her throat. She thought she could hear Saul calling out to her—but his voice was muffled, and vague, as though it were echoing through space and time. But she knew that he was closer than he seemed; and with superhuman effort, tore her eyes from the rearing demoness, and just in the nick of time jumped aside, evading a slick, sweeping blow in the form of a sharp-bladed pincer.

Her reverie broken, the sorceress now set herself about in motion. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Saul deep in concentration. The druid had his staff held out towards the demoness—and every once in a while, when she saw fit to assult him, he would duck; narrowly avoiding what were surely blows of death. Kashya stood a distance away, her eyebrows knitted together with deliberation as she fired arrow after arrow in rapid succession towards the demoness. Liene, likewise, stood to a corner—but her arrows were imbued with ice, in a stark contrast against the fire-imbued ones of the Captain's.

_Move! Do not, under any circumstances remain stationary in battle; for your enemy will then find opportunity to strike you down!_

Cordelia gasped—then lifted her staff. The words were that of her Medjai-mentor; and they resounded within the back of her subconscious mind even as she danced about the sharp-bladed pincers of the demoness.

But Andariel was not to be thwarted thus easily; and with an ear-splitting screech, launched herself into the air and advanced, instead, upon Saul, clicking her pincers furiously. And the serpents upon her head were hissing; they, too, were hungry for blood.

"Don't come over here! I can handle it!" Saul cried out towards the sorceress as he parried a blow of the steel pincer with his staff. And even as the demoness leaned towards him, he raised his dagger—and in a single stroke, drew blood.

The very foundations of the catacombs shook as Andariel reared back; and the shrill shriek of fury from within her throat very nearly brought Cordelia to her knees. But she grit her teeth—and, whispering the words of magic, flung several orbs of bright orange flames towards the demoness; and was somewhat bolstered when they found their target in explosions of gold and red.

But her relief was short-lived, for, with yet another glass-shattering shriek, Andariel struck once more—and it was none other than Saul, who stood in her attack range. With deadly speed and accuracy, she reared backwards; then drove the tip of her pincer into the side of his abdomen. And his cry of shock and pain was lost beneath the combined shrieks of Kashya and Liene—and almost unceremoniously, was thrown into the crumbling, blood-stained wall behind him.

"No!"

"Saul!"

Cordelia stood in silent wonder—so intense was the chill of the ice in her throat, and so heavy was the thundering of her heart within her chest. She could not scream; fear had overcome her entire being. Yet several seconds later, amazingly, the druid stirred; and, weakly, pushed himself into a seating position. His eyes were somewhat out of focus as he gazed from sorceress to demoness.

"Cordelia—" His lips had barely moved, but she heard it loud and clear; a low murmur, laced with mingled fear and pain. It almost broke her heart to see the druid in such a fashion—but there simply was no time to succumb to emotions, whether they were joy for his survival, or sadness for his fear.

Andariel was on the move again, her pincers making sharp, hissing sounds upon the ground as she scuttled towards the motionless druid. Arrow after arrow pierced her back—for Kashya and Liene were busy at work; but she did not notice. So intent was she on the ending of the druid.

_Saul! Do not let the demoness reach him!_

Cordelia could not quite understand the sudden spurt of energy within her limbs; but it was in one swift movement, that she'd lifted her arms and cried out to the heavens. And from beneath the very cracks of the stone floors came the flames; but they were flames in the favour of light, forming a wall, a barrier between the demoness and her prey.

The sudden brightness within the chambers was registered as the demoness reared, once more, upon her pincers. The earth rumbled once more, as she turned her crimson eyes upon the sorceress, and, quite without warning, pounced. Cordelia gasped, then flung her hands over her eyes as the ground beneath her crumbled; but she did not fall. The demoness was nearly upon her—and her pincers, so very sharp, were raised at the ready. Any second now, she would fall—and there would be no more light.

_Death._

But the blow did not come.

Andariel had, once again, changed course—but this time, it was Liene that she'd chosen to assault. A fresh arrow had pierced the nape of her neck; and it was a result of one of the lieutenant's ice-imbued attacks. She ducked blow after blow, using her bow to parry attacks that she could find no time to dodge. Her movements were but defensive now.

_She will not last long—she will tire!_

Saul had gotten to his feet—and his eyes were narrowed as he held his staff towards the demoness. And from within the emerald jewel headpiece of the staff burst seven twisters; but they were no threat to the demoness, for they were quite easily disposed of with several waves of her metal pincers. It was in such a fashion that she deflected many the captain's arrows—and those which struck their aim were but little concern to her.

"Augh!" Liene's cry was almost a piteous wail—beads of perspiration had formed upon her face, and she shook with weariness. Yet, she did not relent; nor did she flee.

Cordelia was only mildly aware that she'd lifted her hands—and it was but several seconds later when the bright balls of flame came into contact with the demoness's bare back. But she did not cease her assault of her lieutenant-prey; and, in a single, swift movement, swept the sorceress off her feet into a wall of splintered barrels. Only vaguely did she feel the sharp sting of metal against her right arm—but the pain was minimal, compared to that of the impact of the splinters and nails against her skin.

The sorceress neither heard the cries of her companions; nor did the situation register within her head. It was several moments later before she became fully aware of herself—but she could not move her arm. In the dimly lit atmosphere of the chamber, she could only just see the tell-tale wisps of poisonous bile within the vein-lines of her arms. Paralysis had taken effect.

"Kashya—to the left!" The druid was yelling at the top of his lungs; but Cordelia could hear the despair within his voice. But she'd caught his eye, and as grey met blue, a grim sort of understanding passed between them.

_It would truly be a fight to the death._

"—Liene!"

The cries that filled the air were muted to the sorceress as she struggled to regain full consciousness. But she could hear snippets of cries—but they were not in favour of her anxiety. Her head was swimming—but she pushed herself to her feet, and only just in time to hear a yelp of shock, and a cry of despair. Before she knew it, the air about her had exploded; and the ground began to rumble once more as an avalanche of rock and stone crumbled over her already-weakened form.

"Saul! SAUL!"

A warm hand found hers—and for several short moments, Cordelia imagined that the battle might have ended. Perhaps, just perhaps, it was over; over, at last. But it was not to be.

They were buried; buried beneath the pile of broken rock and stone. Saul lay beside her—a large boulder sat upon his chest, and his face was blue from lack of air. But, with almost superhuman effort, he shifted the rock aside—then cried out, in a voice both raspy and worn—

"Help Liene! We'll be fine!"

The sorceress took several deep breaths, ignoring the steady flow of blood along the side of her cheek as she attempted to push herself free of the rubble—and the tall, bloodied figure of Kashya swam in and out of focus as she struggled. But even she, in her semi-conscious state, could not ignore the cry of terror and pain that then filled the chamber. And the soft, squealching sound of splattering blood filled the air as the gift of sight was finally returned to her.

But it was too late.

Liene's eyes were widened in horror—but they were lifeless, and the light had died from within the deep green depth; she was left to crumple onto the ground, onto the splintered shards of what was once her bow. It was then clear that the lieutenant of the rogues was finally, irrevocably, defeated.

* * *

Kashya was the first to recover from shock. She no longer hesitated—but shot arrow, after arrow of grief and rage towards the demoness, unrelenting and merciless. For she was fueled, now, by the demise of her sister—and there would be no pity for the demoness of hell. She fired, again, and again—and then again, until it was nigh impossible for the demoness to ignore the hailstorm of fire-laced arrows. It seemed all but too easy; but it was with a single flick of her pincer that she'd sent the captain flying backwards into the pool of blood.

"Kashya!"

Had she cried out? She was not aware of it—and yet, there it was. Her voice, her own voice, was ringing within the chamber; but in crying out, she'd once more caught hold of the demoness's attention.

_Surely, now, she would be the prey._

A silent shudder coursed along the length of her spine—and she could feel the druid stiffen beside her. But his eyes were fixed upon the pallid, prone form; the shell that had once housed the soul of the rogues' lieutenant.

But there was simply no time to dwell upon such matters. She squeezed gently upon his fingers—and, to her greatest relief, he turned to meet her gaze. And then, with a small, grim nod, he pushed himself to his feet; and, quite before she'd had the chance to suggest otherwise, charged towards the Maiden of Anguish with both his staff, and blade held before him.

"Saul, don't—" Cordelia cried out, even as she struggled against the weight of the rubble upon her abdomen. It seemed a quest somewhat impossible, at present, to bring the demoness down.

But Andariel was panting—and it was clear that she was wearied. Yet, with an almost lazy flick of her pincer, she'd sent the druid crashing into the ground. For several short seconds, he lay limp by Liene's broken body; and though his chest rose and fell with harsh and ragged breaths, the demoness persued him no longer.

Instead, Andariel turned her head ever so slightly—and, with her eyes of crimson, stared, rather triumphantly, into those of the sorceress's. And her voice was but a low hiss as she said, "Checkmate."

Cordelia could feel the rapid beating of her heart within her throat—but it was not from fear. What, now, was this new sensation creeping into her veins? It hit her, precisely then, that it was but weariness that filled her body. She was no longer frightened—nor was she nauseous. But if there was one thing she was sure of, it was that she wanted to _live_. At least, live just long enough to see the end of the enemy.

She was not entirely sure how she'd managed—for, never before had she succeeded in the most articulate art of teleportation. But in the blink of an eye, she'd felt the boulder upon her abdomen shift—and half a second later, found herself standing upright upon solid ground once more. And, in her determination, her movements seemed somewhat effortless. She reached into her boot—then drew from the sheath within the Countess's gem-encrusted dagger.

_How fitting that such a weapon should be the end of the darkness upon Entsteig._

With such a thought in mind, Cordelia concentrated once more—and the ground melted away from beneath her feet, and before she knew it, she was airborne; and Andariel stood beneath her, crimson eyes widened with unspoken fear, and metallic pincers held at the ready. But for the second time in so short a span, the demoness's aim was false; and she crumbled to the ground with the sorceress's blade in her throat.

Cordelia was only faintly aware of the ground shaking beneath her. The world began to swim in a blur of colours once more as her legs gave way; and she succumbed to the darkness, with full knowledge that, at the very least, the Maiden of Anguished had at last been defeated.

* * *

**Author's note:** Damn my writer's block. This is the first and last time I write a fight scene with FOUR people in it. Honestly, I swear I was looking for trouble when I brought Kashya and Liene into the mix. I am SO sorry, if this fight scene was confusing. I nearly died trying to write it. And almost, almost burst into tears, too.

As per usual, thanks go out to **Ophelion**: Thanks for always been a source of gore-inspiration, even if you don't know it. And then to **Virali**, who's made my day with yet another review. And also, to **BloodHeron**! I'm so glad you didn't decide to stop with an alert! Thank you, thank you! You've no idea how much reviews mean to me; especially when I spend hours slogging over my fic and all!

Thanks again! And please, please, pretty please with sugar on top, review me! (Yes, you non-reviewers! I KNOW you're out there!) Look out, also, for the next chapter (which is going to be a minichapter)—**Chapter 17: In Marble Entombed**!

Emmy signing off for now! Ta!


	18. Chapter 17: In Marble Entombed

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* * *

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**Chapter 17: In Marble Entombed**

* * *

Liene Emeraude Sabbeth

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"Winter of year 653—Summer of year 675"

"Beauty born of winter noon,

A maiden fair and strong;

As golden sun and summer wanes,

And thus shall end thy song."

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"In life, one's spirit seeks freedom; but in death, one's soul finds peace."

* * *

The storm of evil within Entsteig had, at long last, been vanquished. The curse had been lifted; the Maiden of Anguish was banished, forevermore, from the realms of the Sanctuary. All was well.

And yet, in the bitter watches of harsh reality, all was _not_ well.

Six days; no less than six days had passed since the fall of evil within the monastery. Since the untimely death of the rogues' lieutenant.

Saul had not yet recovered.

She'd watched him many a day since first she'd awoken; but always, he was silent and somber. Indeed, he had not spoken a word since their return from the catacombs. Even Akara, who had, on many occasions pulled him from sadness and grief, was powerless against this new shadow within him.

_He was inconsolable._

Try as she might, Cordelia could not properly remember the details of that which occurred within the deepest chambers of the catacombs. She _had_ witnessed Liene's fall; the sight of _that_ dwelled, still, within her conscious mind. Yet, she found that she could recall _nothing_ else. She had simply awoken, one fine morning, to find Akara leaning over her, pale with anxiety. After several short minutes, it had become apparent that she'd lain unconscious over the span of two days. The next line of business was to enquire after Saul—and then, because she felt it would be rude to do otherwise, enquired after Kashya. To her great relief, she had been told that neither were in any way fatally injured, though the former, like her, had slept long. His injuries had, by far, been the most extensive, as compared to that of the captain's, and that of her own.

But his physical pains, albeit grieveous, was the least of their worries, as Akara had put it.

Cordelia had not understood why, just then. Her head had felt groggy, and, in addition, her entire body had seemed to ache somewhat. She'd tried to move her arm—but the paralysis had only just begun to wear off, and her movements were weak. Andariel was, in all, a dangerously skillful alchemist when it came to poisons. Indeed, she hardly thought of the druid again just then, for it was all she could do to keep from swimming into the depths of unconsciousness again. The pain was nearing the very limits of bearable.

Then the world had gone black.

Yet another day had passed, before she'd awoken once more. She had felt just a little better; but the mere sight of Saul had near broken her heart. For this time, it was none other than the druid who leant over her bed; but his eyes were devoid of his usual cheer. He was, in every essence, a man robbed of happiness. No smile had graced his lips, just as no words escaped his lips. He'd merely watched as she'd awoken—then, nodded briefly, and made his exit.

They had not spoken since.

It was near mid-day; and half of forever had already seemed to pass her by, when the sorceress found herself gazing through the circular alcoves carved into the ivory marble archways surrounding the Inner Cloister. The glorious sight shook her from her reverie—and, for the first time in many days, she felt truly awake. The lush green grass was littered, still, with ruddy-petalled blossoms; and amidst these petals lay the fruits of the crab-apple tree. And yet, as she stood in solemn silence, Cordelia came to understand that the beauty of the Inner Cloister was no tonic for a heart beset with guilt and grief.

He sat upon the chilly soil beneath the shade of the crab-apple tree. His hair hung limp over his solemn eyes; it had grown quite a bit since first they'd met. In his hand, he held a knife—and his eyes, beset with dark circles, were narrowed in deep concentration as he hewed at the grey marble slab before him.

That which would sit at the head of Liene's burial site.

He did not look up, nor did he make any sign of having noticed her arrival as she made her way up to him. She wore upon her one of the countess's gowns—a silken chiton of deep grey silk, which rustled gently upon the grass as she walked. But she made herself still, when finally, she came up close upon him. Several seconds passed, in which he merely scratched at the headstone; and in the silence, Cordelia found herself studying the defeated stance in which he sat, and the beads of perspiration rolling gently along the crevices of his cheek and jaw, which was set in grim determination. So intent was he upon the his work, that he hardly appeared to notice, even after she lowered herself onto the ground beside him.

"Saul—" She began; and her voice was, to her utter dismay, rather feeble. She had not the slightest idea of what to say, or how to behave, and the soft quavering of her voice was beyond her control to fix. But she persisted; and gently, laid a hand upon his shoulder.

He froze. Then, with perhaps just a trace of scarlet within his sad, sad eyes, he turned to face her; and for the first time that morning, acknowledged her presence. "Yes?"

Cordelia inhaled sharply, biting down upon her lower lip as her eyes sought his. The bitter chill within his tone crept, slowly, into her very veins. She felt rather choked; almost as if she could not breathe. "—how are you feeling?"

He seemed rather distant and aloof as he regarded her silently—but after a moment or two, rolled his shoulders back into a faint shrug, dislodging her hold of his shoulder as he did so, then resumed his carving of the marble slab. "As best as can be expected of me at present."

"That doesn't answer my question." Cordelia murmured quietly. She crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes never leaving his, though he seemed unconcerned of her. "I want to know how you're feeling. Not how you're _pretending_ to be feeling."

"My answer to your question will remain the same, no matter how many times you ask it." He grunted. It pained the sorceress somewhat to hear the dully muttered volumes of his dulcet tones. "Nothing is going to change the fact that Liene is dead. And nothing is going to change how I feel at present."

"I'm not telling you to change how you feel. That is beyond your control." Cordelia frowned. "But by Horazon, how I wish you were less beset with sadness."

She could see the flash of petulance in his eyes as he met her gaze; but it was gone in but half a second, to merely be replaced with the grim countenance of his earlier self. "I would not tell you to forsake the mourning of a dear friend."

"I'm not telling you to forget about her." Cordelia muttered through her gritted teeth; and it was rather subconsciously that she'd dug her nails into the flesh of her palm, creating tightened fists as she did so. "I suppose it hasn't occurred to you that your current state worries all who care for you, still?"

"Well, what would you have me do?" He was greatly incensed now—the sorceress saw that his ears were slowly reddening, as was his neck. But it had never been in her will to anger him; and she was greatly distressed as she swallowed the lump within her throat. "Would you rather I smile, and pretend as though naught has happened? Would you rather I were a cold fish that disregarded the death of a close personal companion? Would that not make me less than human, Cordelia? How could you call me friend, then, if I were to ignore the loss of one I hold as dear to me, as I do you?"

Cordelia found herself silenced just then. She had not the words to counter his; nor did she think it prudent to do so. In such situations, she'd long learnt that it was best to simply leave the afflicted to their own devices; for she, as an outsider, would have no insight into the thoughts of one so beset with sadness and grief.

She bit her lip—but in her silence, found just enough strength in her being to reach out, and to clasp his face in her hand, drawing his eyes to hers. For several short seconds, she merely gazed into his solemn eyes, and he did not look away. Perhaps he _had_ found some comfort, be it by some miracle, or by her intent gaze; for, with a softened sigh, he'd leant back, his carving-blade falling limp onto the ground with a softened thump.

"I don't quite know how to behave at present, Cordelia. Forgive the harshness of my speech." His words were quiet—and they held within them such confusion and pain, that she was struck speechless. It was several moments later before she blinked—and yet again several moments later when she'd finally moved to return her hand to her lap.

"You needn't apologise, Saul. I—I wouldn't have believed you to be one to forget your companions in the blink of an eye." She said, at last; and her voice was but a low whisper. "And I'm aware of how—well, innately passé this sounds, but promise me that you won't grieve forever?"

It had struck her, even then, that her words were somewhat reminiscent to those of helplessly romantic maidens.

_She_ was no such helpless maiden.

He seemed quite ready to remark upon her words; and there was what seemed a smile upon his lips as he leant forward, laying his chin upon the unfinished tomb. But what he had been about to say, Cordelia never discovered; for, just then, a softened, almost demure cough arose within the air—and they were interrupted.

It was Kashya.

Perhaps she had sensed wrong, and perhaps it had been but her imagination—but Cordelia thought she could sense a hint of bitter resentment in Saul's eyes as he turned to regard her.

At any rate, there seemed a distant chill to his tone as he lifted his head, and said, "Kashya."

The captain of the rogues cleared her throat. Apparently, she, too, had sensed the animosity in the way he'd said her name. "Good morning, Saul. I see you are better."

"What do you want?" There was no mistaking it now—the hate in his voice was painfully obvious.

Cordelia found herself gazing wearily from one to the other; somehow, it seemed as if a battle of words was about to break out. The thought half amused, and half alarmed her—would Kashya stand for such abuse?

But deep within the depths of her heart, the sorceress had to admit that she somehow had seen this coming. That which happened within the catacombs had not been spoken off—but it was without a doubt, now, that Saul blamed Kashya for Liene's untimely demise. And it was evident, by the way the latter avoided his eye, that she, too, felt the weight of guilt upon her shoulders. She certainly didn't rise to anger, as was the norm for her, at his tone.

"I just wanted to see how you were." She began, slowly.

"Well, now you know." Saul said, blandly. His eyes were narrowed—and he seemed to have forgotten Cordelia's presence. He got to his feet, his fists clenched. "And now you can leave."

Kashya gritted her teeth—but did not turn away. Instead, she took a step towards the druid, her hand outstretched. "Saul, please—I need to speak to you. But I cannot, if you turn me away without listening."

"There is nothing you can say, that I will wish to hear." Again, his words were harsh—and Cordelia could not help but feel but a touch saddened by the gleam of despair within Kashya's eyes. "It would do the both of us much good, if you would consent to leave my company."

"Why?" The word was but a whisper—and the captain's teal orbs were vaguely starry. "Why won't you listen to me?"

Something clicked in the deep of the sorceress's mind—she felt as if she were an unwanted intruder, a non-involved third party of insignificant importance. The thought made her feel rather small—but to attempt to leave would draw attention to herself. And _that_, in every essence, was something she did not need at present.

Yet the nagging feeling of consciousness within her forbade her impudence; who was she, and what right had she to listen to such a conversation, as was prone to happen? But even she could not deny the truth—she was curious. Was this the moment? Would Kashya, the great captain of the rogues, finally be broken enough to reveal her deepest, truest emotions? Would Saul, at last, be fully realised of Kashya's feelings for him? It all interested the sorceress to an extent—but only partly because she had little hope for such a future, herself. Scenes such as these were as close as she was likely to get to romance.

Surely, it couldn't hurt to just _observe_ them? Besides, the druid and the captain seemed unlikely as ever to realise her presence.

With that thought in mind, she crossed her arms, and returned her gaze to the two.

"You know why, Kashya." Saul hissed quietly—and his face was but inches from her, as his deep grey eyes narrowed further, further, into mere slits. "Don't you dare deny your part in Liene's death."

"I _wasn't_ going to, but what would you have me say?" The captain's face was deathly pale—but her eyes were wide as she reached towards the druid and clenched on to his shoulders with what seemed an almost bone-breaking grip. "Would you have me cry for forgiveness? She is dead, Saul! I cannot ask her forgiveness, and you cannot imagine the torment it causes me!"

Saul jerked his shoulders, his brow creasing deeply as he reached forward to dislodge her hands, rather roughly, from his shoulders. "You could've helped her. I _told_ you to help her—but you hesitated. Your hesitation cost Liene her life." He spat bitterly. "Your own sister, Kashya—how could you?"

"I couldn't think at that moment, Saul—please, understand!" Kashya was screaming now; and the shrill volumes of her gritty tones reverberated within the courtyard. "I didn't _think_. I couldn't."

"That—" Saul said, rather dryly, "—is obvious." And without another word, he turned from her, and began to walk away.

"Surely you _must_ know. You _must _know _why_ I hesitated!" Kashya cried; and for a moment or two, she looked as if she wanted nothing more than to latch herself onto the druid's arm—so aghast, was she. "You _have_ to know why I did it."

"I really don't care."

"It was because I _loved_ you."

The word had barely escaped as a whisper—yet it echoed loud and clear within the depths of Cordelia's mind. It had struck rather the same effect upon Saul, who had, by now, halted in his steps. But he did not turn to face the captain, and, after a moment or two, simply cleared his throat, and strode away into cathedral; then shut the door behind him.

And then all was silent.

Cordelia nibbled gently upon her lower lip. Every inch of her being thought it most sensible to leave—but somehow, it seemed a cruel gesture to abandon Kashya, however nasty she may be, to her thoughts, which surely, at this point, were quite beset with darkness. Tentatively, almost timidly, the sorceress cleared her throat, her eyes fixed pointedly upon the other.

She did not respond

—nor did she make any gesture to suggest that she was aware of Cordelia's presence within the courtyard. Instead, she merely stared; stared, and stared at the doors of the cathedral, as if she could not glean enough from the lacquered surface. 

Perhaps _she_, too, had begun to die from within.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Phew! So this is what happens when I suffer from writer's block! The lateness of this chapter is attributed to the fact that I've been busy with my prom, Christmas, New Year, and a road-trip with my besties down to the capital city of Malaysia, Kuala Lumpur. So, so sorry if my lateness have caused… any form of distress? XD

Thanks, as usual, go out to **Harold Hou**, **BloodHeron**, and **skopde** for the lovely reviews! Many thanks! You have no idea how your reviews make my day!

And thanks go out, also, to **maeve27** for the favourite! I'm glad you enjoy my fic!

Thanks also, to **Ophelion**, because I've yet to have a chapter out without thanking you. XD Hope you get back soon! I'm in need of some serious Nyhl Oread fluff!

Thanks again, guys, and Happy New Year! Have a good 2008, and look out for the next chapter, entitled, "**Veiled Affection**"! Its just that final chapter before my heroes depart for Lut Gholein. And I am aware that things seem to be moving a bit slowly, but you can all be guaranteed a slapfight, and face-scratching fun in the next chapter! Until then, cheerio!


	19. Chapter 18: Veiled Affection

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**Chapter 18: Veiled Affection**

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"O' sisters of the Sightless Eye! Celebrate and be glad this night!"

_Applause._

"Celebrate, for the demoness Andariel has fallen!"

_Applause again._

"Never again shall our monastery fall prey to those of darkness and of Hell—we are free!"

_Yet more applause._

"Yes, be glad, my sisters, and celebrate! You have every reason, and every right to submit yourselves to joy; but let us never forget the heroes, without which, this victory would not have been possible! Tonight, my sisters, let us honor them; arise, Saul of Scosglen! Arise, Cordelia of the Medjai-Kiel! Arise, Kashya, Captain of the Sisterhood! Lift your cups, sisters, and let us drink to their eternal health!"

But it was _Liene_ who deserved the greatest honour of all.

Saul blinked placidly towards Akara for several short seconds, his brow furrowing ever so slightly as he did so. It struck something within him to know that the High Priestess had omitted the name of one who'd fallen proud in battle for the sake of that which she loved; her home, and her family. But to mention _that_ name, she, who was one so loved amongst her mourners, in the midst of such a celebration would be nothing short of cruel—and Saul both understood, and empathized with Akara's decision.

Almost mechanically, he reached forward, and lifted his chilled goblet to his lips, then took a long, deep draught of the sweet wine within it. It was honey-wine, richly coloured in a shade of golden-brown—and it had been to Liene what milk is to an infant; and it was in this rather minute, yet significant detail that the High Priestess chose to remember that bravest of rogues.

He could feel Cordelia's eyes boring into the back of his skull has he drained his goblet of the remaining wine—like him, she had remained deeply rooted within her seat, blatantly ignoring the call of the High Priestess. He had not a doubt that her thoughts were as his were; that arising would be a gesture to overshadow the memory of she who had departed. Such glory was better spent on heroes; true heroes, the likes of Tal Rasha, and Talic of Mount Arreat. He swiped carelessly at his mouth with the back of his hand, and in a voice both quiet and solemn, said, more to himself than anyone else, "To Liene."

_Yes, to Liene, who, surely, stood amongst the women of courage that he'd had the pleasure of knowing. And he had known her well._

But it was, perhaps, time to let go. She was dead, gone forevermore; a fact irreversible, even by means of necromancy, which Saul was loathe to employ. Besides, Liene would have hated his mourning of her passing.

She had believed in _heaven_.

And that would simply have to be enough for him.

"Saul—?"

He blinked several times—then shifted his gaze ever so slightly, the legs of his chair scraping against the ground as he did so. "Hrm?"

Cordelia bit gently upon her lower lip—she seemed at rather a loss for words. At any rate, she didn't quite meet his eyes, as she usually did; and when she spoke once more, her volumes were low, and her demeanor, somewhat sedate. "Are you alright?"

For some odd reason, the question struck a chord of irony within him. But he chose to ignore the words of biting upon the tip of his tongue—it was not her fault that she was concerned for _him_. "I won't lie to you, Cordy. I am not alright—but I will be, eventually. But don't trouble yourself for my sake; I am not so important, as to enter into the vestiges of your mind to keep you from spiritual peace."

She eyed him rather dubiously for a moment, before crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm not troubled."

"Liar."

"I'm not lying." She protested, her crimson brows arching slightly. "I'm just—well, concerned. You haven't spoken a word to Kashya since—well, you know."

Saul scowled. "How do you mean? I rarely speak to her, even when we _were_ on speaking terms. This isn't much of a difference."

"You're either very cruel, bitterly cold, unbelievably dense, or horribly mean. Take your pick." Cordelia returned his scowl—and _her_ scowl cowed _his_ into a mere expression of neutral dislike. "Personally, I'd say you were unbelievably dense, if I'd not witnessed her extraordinarily blunt confession to you myself."

"I refuse to acknowledge her love of myself. Is there a law that somehow requires me to reciprocrate her feelings?" He grumbled. "I _don't_ love her, Cordy. You know I don't. What else can I do?"

He thought he could see the crevices upon her forehead deepen ever so slightly—and was startled to discover that her eyes were now flashing with exasperation. _Those _eyes, in addition to the crimson sheen upon her cheeks, and the expression of severe disgust upon her face served both to amuse and alarm the druid. He was not particularly afraid _of_ her, but rather, of _causing_ her grief. "Cordy—?"

"No. Don't speak. It's _my_ turn to speak." She hissed. "I'll tell you what you can do, Master Vyreant. You can _acknowledge_, at the very least, that she has revealed her innermost self to you. And while it is entirely blameless for you to _not_ feel that way for her, I have every right to berate you for not—turning—her—down—gently!"

"Ech!" Saul inhaled sharply, rubbing tenderly upon his arm as his eyes narrowed themselves into points of frustration. Cordelia had chosen to punctuate her last words with punches. _Painful_ punches that left his arm feeling helpless afterwards. "You act as if I'd turned _you_ down." He grumbled.

He thought he saw a flash of helplessness within her eyes—but it was gone in a mere second. If anything, her temper seemed somewhat calmed, though her words and tone were no less biting. "I have no patience for romance." She grumbled. "But if I had been born Kashya as opposed to myself, _I_ would have had enough sense to see that you cared little for me. And _I_ would have saved us both the drama."

"Be careful, my dear. Your words sting so—would you have yourself hurt my feelings?"

It _had_ hurt.

"As you have hurt Kashya's?" She countered.

A frown had made its way into his face—it knitted his brows together in slight frustration. "Why do you even care? She's made it quite clear that she hates every fibre of your being."

"She won't hate every fibre of my being the second you sweep her into your arms and beg her love and forgiveness."

"What was that?"

She was silent just then, choosing only to drum gently upon the table with her fingers. Her eyes were upon his—though she did not smile, nor make any slight movement for many long moments. Finally, in rather a defeated cadence—"Apparently, to her, you and I are—well, _involved_. Somehow."

"_What _was that?"

"You heard me perfectly. Don't make me repeat it." Cordelia leaned back in her seat, biting down upon her lower lip. A soft pink flush had begun to appear upon her cheeks—and despite the heaviness weighing upon his heart, Saul found himself smiling at the sight.

"I heard. I was just—ah—expressing my—er—disbelief."

"At any rate." She began. "I think its best if you talk to her. I know you don't reciprocrate her feelings. But all the same, a woman needs closure, even if it isn't the happy ending she'd imagined."

Saul chuckled softly under his breath—then reached over to grasp his companion's hands in his own. "For one who has no patience for romance, Cordy—you certainly seem to know a lot of the matter."

She bit her lower lip, though the corners of her mouth twisted themselves, however slightly, upwards into the makings of a smile. Perhaps he'd imagined it—but Saul thought that he could feel the tightening of her fingers about his; and for a moment or two, he fancied her sentiments towards him to be an exact match to that of his own. Perhaps, just perhaps, she wanted nothing more than to simply hold his hand, until death claimed them. But such thoughts were but a fool's thoughts.

Had she not said that she'd no patience for such things?

But surely, surely, it was a lie? Somehow, Cordelia did not strike him as the kind to wish romance away—he could very well picture her a fiancé, a wife, and a mother. She made it too easy for his imagination.

Several long moments passed, in which they merely contented themselves in one another's company; and they were silent. The musicians had taken their places by the podium; the festive sounds of strings and drums rang loud within the great hall of the monastery. The dancing had begun, and many a rogue sister flew across the room on tiptoes, all a-flurry with laughter and activity. None stopped to speak to the two—and Saul was rather glad of it.

It was rather comforting to feel the gentle touch of the sorceress's hand within his own palm. Such was a sensation as he was loathe to relinquish. Besides, she'd not shifted; nor had she apparently thought it necessary to withdraw her hand of his grasp.

It seemed half of forever later before she spoke once more. "Did Warriv approach you earlier today?"

"Yes." He leaned back into his seat, stretching his legs out. But he did not loose his hold of her hand—and she, likewise, did no such thing. "Did he ask _you_, too?"

"Yes."

Saul tilted his head gently, deep grey eyes searching. He was curious as to her response to the caravan master's question—she _had_, after all, shown dislike for the port-city in days past. "Will you go with him, Cordy?"

She watched silently, the colour of her irises wavering ever so slightly—and for several short minutes, it seemed as if she were but a lost child. "To go to Lut Gholein, Saul? I've heard many stories of the jewel city—and they have long interested me. Is it truly so beauteous a sight? I know the sands are golden, and the sun, warm. The weather of the port-city is known to be as erratic and changeable as the sea—warm and humid one moment, and cool and breezy the next."

"Then you will go?"

"No." The sorceress sighed quietly, bowing her head just a touch. "I—I find myself rather loathe to leave the monastery. And though I am very much intrigued by the wonders of Lut Gholein, I have little—no, I have absolutely no desire at all!—to enter through the threshold of the city gates."

"I see." He said, a full minute later. But the words were mere words—he did _not_ see, and he did _not_ understand.

Did the sorceress seek to _avoid_ such existances as could be found in Lut Gholein? But what, what was it that caused such an aversion?

"Will _you_ go with him?" She was staring at him, now, her eyes widened—but they were somber; almost _severe_ in expression. Yet it struck something within him, to gaze into those eyes, and to realise that they were, after all, filled with _fear_.

He smiled—then squeezed gently upon the warm, slender fingers entangled in his own. But his answer never left his mouth—for half a second later, they were interrupted.

"You wish to travel to Lut Gholein?"

Kashya.

One he had little patience to deal with at present.

_Very_, very little patience.

She seemed rather uneasy as she approached them—but her jaw was set in grim determination. "Well?"

"And if I _do_, what business is that to you?" Saul said, dryly. Beside him, Cordelia muttered something vague under her breath—then excused herself rather hastily. Saul supposed that she did not wish to witness the confrontation; or perhaps she was in no mood to endure harsh words of bitter jealousy. At any rate, the sorceress, clearly, had the better end of the deal; she had not the arduous task of facing the rogues' captain.

"Will you halt your boorish manners, at least just long enough to _listen_ to me?" Her voice was terse; she was clearly annoyed, now. "I need to talk to you, and I wish to goodness you'd allow me time to speak, before lancing through my words. It is quite bad enough to never see you alone—" Here, she threw rather a dirty glance towards the retreating back of Cordelia—the sorceress had, by now, made her way through the floor of dancing rogues; and it was thus that she'd slipped through the double doors, and disappeared from sight.

"—that is because I don't _want_ to talk to you when I'm quite alone." Saul countered. He frowned—then crossed his arms over his chest. "And I would appreciate it, _captain_, if you would cease your baseless arguments with Cordelia. She has done nothing to provoke you."

"Do you opt, simply, to ignore that which I have said to you? Against everything within my being, I have admitted my love for you. And whilst I understand that it is entirely possible that you do not reciprocrate my sentiments—" She swallowed, hard. Her cheeks had begun to colour. "Why is it so hard for you to believe that I, too, am human? I have every right to fall in love. Yet you punish me for it."

"You flatter yourself, Kashya. It was never my intention to punish you for your affections towards me, whether they be veiled, or not. But you have guessed right—I do not recipocrate your sentiments." Saul said, gritting his teeth. He was in no mood to discuss the subject further.

Her steely teal orbs were misty now—and her hands were clenched into tight fists as she took a step towards him. "I suppose it has not occurred to you that I deserved, at the very least, a reaction prior to my confession? Did it not cross your mind, even once, to set me free, should you not care for me as I care for you?" She narrowed her eyes ever so slightly. "Perhaps I have been very wrong in the judging of your character." Her voice was but a whisper.

Saul inclined his head gently towards her; but his eyes, nor his expression were softened. He did not, at present, care very much that his words were venomous. "As was I—but perhaps, in disappointment, we are perfectly matched. You did not think that I could be cruel; and never had it crossed my mind that you would abandon your sister to death." He stood, pushing his chair back with the backs of his knees as he did so. "Have a good celebration."

And, without so much as half a glance in her direction, he strode away into the fray, his arms held rigidly at his sides.

* * *

The night was young—and the midnight darkness of the lands had not yet settled within the skies. Twinkling stars found their homes in ageless constellations, surrounding the silvery-hued crescent moon of Summer's end. The _children_ were assembled about their _mother_—and together, they glimmered in a breathtaking vision of lights and colours.

_Like sequins upon silk_, Cordelia reflected, as she gazed up into the deep blue stillness. _The quintessence of absolute beauty._

The atmosphere within the outer cloister was silent—a strinking contrast against the cheerful festivities of the grand hall. But this night, the sorceress had little stomach for celebration. To stay where the happy people were garnered many a questioning glance—such as she was eager to avoid.

And so, she'd left—left to seek solitude within silent courtyards. Left to hide the anxiety of her own being from the sphere of joy and happiness. And so she found herself within the outer cloister.

She'd been obliged to slip into a dress, as was required of one such occasion; and in all honestly, she didn't much mind the soft, cool feel of cloth about her legs—_this_ dress was, in every essence, magnificent. Peacock-blue sleeves of a semi-translucent material, clasped in antique gold about her upper arms, fell in swathes about her knees—but they did not hinder her in the least. The bodice was of the finest ebony silk, heavily embroidered with glassy beads of a gold and silver hue. The many-layered skirts were silk—black, blue, and green; and they rustled gently upon the grass as she walked. Cordelia decided she rather liked that sound. It reminded her of dreams—dreams in which she was free.

As free as a bird in the sky.

"It's a nice night, isn't it?"

She felt her heart collapse into her stomach—but was compelled to swallow the gasp that threatened to choke her to tears. Instead, the sorceress forced a little laugh—then turned to face the newcomer. "Yes, it is."

_Oh, hell be damned._ Had she not left the captain in the company of the unfortunate druid?

Surely, it was _her_, now, who was unfortunate.

"What can I do for you, Kashya?"

Kashya held within her façade an expression of severity; and it was almost frightening to behold. But she did not seem in the least bit inclined to hide her distaste—nor did she make any effort at relieving the discomfort which so obviously plagued the sorceress. She spoke; and her voice shook, if just a touch. Perhaps it was anger, and perhaps it was grief—Cordelia decided she could not make it out.

"I find myself in great need of some perspective." She began—but her tone was that of an embittered woman. At any rate, the sourness of her face was quite enough to curdle new milk. "And I find you to be just the person to aid myself in such a time."

Cordelia bit her lip—but nodded gently. "What plagues your mind?"

"A puzzle."

"May I enquire as to what your puzzle is?"

Here, the captain paused—and time seemed to halt as steely teal sought pallid blue. And when, at last, the former found the latter, time began to swirl once more. Yet it seemed, now, as if time would not, and could not pass quickly enough—and that the pace of nature's minutes were all but too slow for the sorceress to welcome.

"I puzzle, Tia-aldyn, over why love _is_."

"I beg your pardon?" Cordelia blinked once. The question had not seemed a question in the very least.

Perhaps Kashya had noticed the uncertainly in her tone, and the quiet bewilderment in the crease of her brows. "You do not understand me. What I mean by my words—I question the very existence of love. Why, Tia-aldyn, is love allowed to flourish within the depths of our beings? Love in and of itself is no great wonder—I cannot understand the power of it at all. And unrequited love! That is the worst of the lot; and I have little stomach for it. I have little stomach for anything, as of now!"

"Well. I am sorry to hear that." The sorceress began, rather tentatively. Truth be told, she was not entirely afraid of the captain at present—but rather, wearied. She had not the desire to argue. "By all accounts, captain Kashya—I beg of you to remain light-hearted as to the nature of love. It is not half as bad as you choose to suppose. At least, I prefer to think otherwise."

She could feel the cold, hard stare of the other upon her as she re-adjusted the gold-and-silver bracelet entwined upon her wrist. But she was unphased—gone were her days of fear, and gone was the captain's influence upon the state of her nerves. "_You_ would think otherwise, Tia-aldyn. I quite understand."

"I beg your pardon?" Cordelia lifted a crimson brow, the motion slow, almost languid. "That sounds almost as if you were accusing me of something. But that cannot be so—I have done nothing to incur such behaviour on your behalf."

As much as she was loathe to admit it, the captain was beginning to annoy her. Such were the beginnings of arguments. _Violent_ arguments.

"Then you are, truly, as stupid as you seem to be. That I do declare." The whispered tones in which the words were uttered were riddled with sarcasm; laced with silent rage. "You cannot truly be as blind as that. You, of all people! You must see who it is that Saul truly desires—who he truly loves. Yet you ignore it as you would a madman's cries!"

The words, whispered as they were, echoed loud and clear within the sorceress's mind; and at the same time, reverberated from column to column of the silent courtyard. Time—time had, once more, chosen to stop. Even the light in the stars had dimmed—or perhaps it was all in her head. But that which surrounded her, at present, was immaterial. Naught was important.

_Where now was the voice of reason?_

Cordelia swallowed hard. Her fingers were tense; for it was with them that she'd held, rigidly, doggedly, onto the hem of her sleeve. Remnants of memories flooded her head, threatening to engulf her in a wave of nausea. Why, now, was she scared? But it was in her instincts to deny that which she knew to be the truth. And so she did.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She murmured—but her voice shook. Kashya was sure to notice it.

She did not disappoint. "Deny it all you wish. _You_ know—and _I_ know, that your heart has been his, all this time. If you'd chosen to tell me when you'd had the chance—but you _never_ did. And so, I am thus your victim. I have been played for a fool—by you, by you!"

"I have never—never made advances upon him!" Cordelia found herself crying aloud. She cursed the desperation in her tone.

Certainly, she had _never_ made advances upon him. But that was no measure for that which she felt for him.

Surely, there _was_ love. However mild, however faint—there was _some_ love.

Unrequited love. Forbidden love—such was her fate. She both understood, and accepted her destiny.

"You lie." Kashya's eyes were narrowed in disgust; and in the steely-teal orbs rested both jealousy and wrath. "I see the both of you—hand in hand, gazing at naught but the other, day in and day out. It sickens me to watch you!"

"Why do you make it hard on me? Clearly, he feels _nothing_ for you. It is not my fault that he cares little for your temperament and nature." Cordelia retorted—anger had, by now, overtaken anxiety. She was now entirely infuriated; her manners were quickly dissipating into nothingness. "And with _your_ temperament and nature—it is no wonder that you send men running the opposite direction at any given chance. Why, you repulse even _me_! And I am one of your own gender."

She had hit upon a nerve—it became painfully obvious the second her words had left her mouth. Kashya's eyes were narrowed, now, and her hands were balled into fists. She was silent for a moment. And then, her tone poisonous—"You little bitch!"

"You venomous cow!"

She never saw the hand that had moved to strike her—nor had she fully anticipated one such motion. Yet it happened; swift, and quick as the summer rainfall. Cordelia staggered backwards, crying out as she lifted a hand to her burning cheek. It came away bloody—the rogues' captain, clearly, had claws for nails. Perhaps she had fangs in the place of teeth, as well. It certainly wasn't too absurd an assumption. But she had not the time to consider the anatomical errors of the captain's frame—there were far more pressing matters at hand.

_Fight or flight?_

Certainly, certainly—_fight_. She would not take the abuse in sheep-like silence—she was not so patient a person.

Cordelia gritted her teeth, narrowing her eyes ever so slightly as she tugged her sleeves from her arms—then dropped them in a heap by the grass beneath her feet.

And so began the _violence_ of the argument.

* * *

The soft tap-tap-tapping of his footsteps upon the ground were loud in the abandoned courtyards. Silence—sweet silence in which no sound penetrated the air. It was music to the ears of one so tired, so wearied and exhausted.

_Sweet silence._

He was not in the least bit inclined to re-enter the festive cheer within the grand hall—it was only with a diversion in the form of a squabble between Charsi and Gheed, that he'd managed to escape the rogues _at_ _all_. It had amused him vaguely, however, to discover the popularity in which he had found himself suddenly immersed in. _All_ wished his company for the night—_all_ wished to dance by his side, and _all_ wished to speak to him on matters both important and unimportant.

_Damn the festivities._

The air was cool upon his face as he strode along the outer corridors. He found himself admiring the moon—and it was beautiful, in its gold-and-silver glory. It was surrounded by stars; and _those_, too, were silver and gold.

Such beauty as was expected of mother nature. It signified that all was, indeed, well in the world.

Yet _was_ it?

He frowned. For a moment or two, it seemed as if he'd caught a whisper—a lick of screams in the air. Their voices were only vaguely discernible—they were women.

"You wretch! How false you are!"

"You see imagined faults within me, yet ignore the nail in your own eye—I have never lied to you! I have never sought to remove Saul from you!"

He froze. The voices were somewhat vaguely familiar.

"It was extraordinarily obvious that he was in love with you all along! You're so stupid, Cordelia!"

"And you!—_you_ are blind to reality!"

Kashya. Cordelia.

Kashya _and_ Cordelia.

Kashya _fighting_ Cordelia.

_Oh dear God._

* * *

_Oh dear God._

Cordelia inhaled sharply, wincing as an involuntary, and muffled grunt of pain escaped her lips. The captain of the rogues had not earned her stature without merit—she was obviously well-trained in melee. And when the occasion called for it, the sorceress had little doubt as to whether she would seek the employment of tactics both vicious and cunning. Kashya was _merciless_ in battle—and Cordelia found herself envying no enemy of hers.

It was still somewhat unclear to the sorceress as to why she'd chosen, at all, to involve herself in such a messy display of strengths and wiles. But Kashya's taunts had become overbearing—and in time had broken through to her inner core. She'd pushed the limits of the sorceress's patience; again, and again, and again. And so Cordelia had pushed back.

But she was, just now, regretting her decision.

Every inch—every minute part of her body tingled; but the sensations were unpleasant. Such sensations, she knew, were often the effect of scratches.

The captain of the rogues had _claws_.

_Oh dear God._

It was then, at that precise moment, that the sorceress decided that she was tiring—and quickly, at that.

She groaned inwardly; and ducked—but to her dismay, found her wearied reflexes slowed. The captain's balled fist came into easy contact with her cheek, sending her back against the wall and knocking the wind from her lungs.

_That_ had hurt.

For several long moments, it seemed as if the world was a blur of colours—and her line of vision swam in and out of focus. The captain was duplicated; there were three. And despite the various disturbing aspects of her current situation, Cordelia found herself chuckling—though rather faintly. She was fighting—_fighting_ a woman she had once thought her friend. And the details of the fight—well, those were better left unknown now and forever.

_If Saul were to discover the fight—_

Well, that would be, quite honestly, bad.

But she had no time to further contemplate the thoughts in her head. Kashya was here—she was ferocious, and she was fast.

And near _deadly_, when thus angered.

Without quite thinking, she raised a fist, aiming to knock the captain back. Her own anger had quelled somewhat; but she was still annoyed, to say the least. And though she was quite, quite likely to lose the fight, Cordelia had no inclination whatsoever to declare a defeat and retreat. But the captain was quick—and in one swift motion, wrapped her fingers about the sorceress's wrist, thus impairing her movements.

"Give it up." The former smirked, eyes narrowing. "I'm obviously much better at this."

Cordelia bit her lip—then scowled, though she did not attempt to get away. "And Saul obviously _loves_ that part of you. Bloodlust! As if that were pleasant at all, in a woman!"

"_Bitch_."

There was simply no time—no time, at all, in which the sorceress found herself at ease to dodge and to evade the captain's rapidfire blows. She was fueled, now, by wrath; the fury of a woman, scorned, that not even hell itself bore. The thought was somewhat frightening—but oddly, most oddly, amusing at the same time. To Cordelia, it seemed naught but a cruel irony. To fight for a woman for a man that she neither loved, nor carried hopes of marrying, was somewhat ludicrous, to say the very least.

_Oh, such lies!_

Cordelia scowled—and, begging silence of the voice in her head, began an attempt at removing the captain's grasp from about her wrist. But her efforts were in vain; the other was stronger, and she had not the peace of mind, nor the strength remaining to finish the fight. Yet Kashya would have none of it; and with rather a triumphant cry, launched forward, and in one swift blow, knocked the sorceress back several paces.

"Cordelia!"

She gasped, eyes widening even as she toppled helplessly into the air beneath her back. But the collision of stone against muscle and bone did not come. Instead, she was supported—and in half a second, was lifted onto her feet once more. Yet her rescuer's arms remained locked about her, drawing her close against a richly-robed chest.

"Saul—" Kashya's eyes were widened in horror—her hair fell askew about her, and her cheeks were smudged with dirt, mud and blood. "W—what are you—?"

"I believe that question deserves an answer from yourself, captain." His voice was calm—yet more than unusually cold. Cordelia thought she detected a vague whisper of contempt within his words, but she did not speak. "Well?"

The captain was silent for several long moments—but her cheeks were crimson, and her eyes, downcast; teary. Yet, when at last she cried out, her tone was that of an anguished, bittered woman. "Well, nothing! It is none of your business, you damned druid! Stay with your _princess_, and may the beasts of hell tear you to pieces!"

And with that, she turned her back to the two—and without another word, strode away into the darkness of the night.

* * *

_Lies, lies and deceit._

Cordelia exhaled weakly, then leant back against the wall of her sleeping chamber. Her candle had long since melted away into wax and oil, and the moon had disappeared behind her sheath of cloud and sky. It was dark—completely dark. But she found the darkness comforting—for the darkness was but mere cover for the tears of one who wished to avoid the scrutiny of society.

It hid the weary.

She exhaled once more, shutting her eyes. Several hours had passed since her tears had run dry. She had no more to waste.

"I must be strong. Strong and steadfast, as the olden oaks are. I am a tree. Men cannot fell me. Especially not him."

Those words, she whispered to herself. Over, and over, and over.

"I am a tree."

_A lie_.

"He cannot fell me. He does not possess my heart."

_Yet another lie._

"I do not—I do not—I am not in love with him." Her words were choked, now, by fresh tears.

She had not meant to engage in such arguments. Dear God alive, she had not meant to dishonor her family—never, never to dishonor her family, and her people. But such words—such cruel, and biting words as the captain had uttered had stirred the cauldron of boiling frustration within her.

And to her knowledge, boiling frustration was a recipe for wrath and anger. And clearly also demeaning catfights within monastery courtyards.

All in the petty, petty name of love.

She hugged her legs to her chest—then clasped her face in her trembling hands. And within the darkened chamber and the loneliness of her heart, Cordelia Cyrix began to cry.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Oh crud. I'm so sorry, you guys. This has probably been the longest wait since I first released this fic. I'm so sorry! Work's just been taking its toll on me, and I'm so darn tired all the friggin' time. Author's block doesn't really help, either. Anyways! I need to thank, this time, **Ophelion**! Welcome back, and thanks for your spiffy two reviews! Thanks also to **skopde**, and **BloodHeron** for the reviews! And also to **Fallen Messiah** for the alert! Thanks!

Don't forget to review this chapter! I'll try to get my next chapter, entitled, **"Letters from Deeper Aranoch"** out as soon as humanely possible, so look out for it! Until then, cheerio!


	20. Chapter 19: Letters from Deeper Aranoch

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**Chapter 19: Letters from Deeper Aranoch**

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My dearest cousin,

I find myself in rather a peculiar situation. As of now, we have entered into the sandy storms of Aranoch—I cannot miss you more. Aranoch is unforgiving thus far. Scorching hot sunlight, day in and day out parches our lips and dries the sweat from our skins. The nights are much the same—but where the mornings are hot and damp, the nights are cold, windy, and dry.

But I deviate.

I write, hoping to find you, and all within the monastery in the best of spirits. It has been two weeks since we exited your company—and I shall be glad of any news regarding your sisterhood.

You cannot imagine just how much I desire your advice as of now. You may recall, before we parted, that I was somewhat surprised that Cordelia had chosen, at all, to accompany us eastwards into Lut Gholein. But I had not the knowledge, just then, of how much she desired not to come. I know now—she has been naught but miserable the entire journey. She barely smiles. I worry for her, cousin. I worry greatly for her.

At such a time, Deckard Cain proves, as he has numerous times, that he is, though a worthy and most important companion, exceptionally annoying at the worst of times. I have myself surpressed on several occasions the desire to knock him senseless. Cordelia, gloomy as she is, suffers the same. Only Warriv seems ever ready to accept his advice and words—but then again, Warriv is probably of the same stuff as Cain is. I cannot wait for the journey to end—though Cordelia seems to dread it. I cannot quite understand why. Perhaps you could help?

Do take care, and keep safe. Bright sun to you, my dearest cousin.

Most dearly,

Your cousin, Saul.

* * *

Cousin Saul,

How wonderful it is to hear from you at last! You are lax in writing, cousin. How I have missed you, also!

I do hope that the desert does not take its toll on you, cousin dear. It is a dangerous road to take—Aranoch is much less travelled and explored, than our very own Entsteig. We have heard news of demon patrols within the desert sands—do be careful. If ever you run short of water, remember that beneath every living thing lies an oasis—small, perhaps, but proving extremely useful in difficult situations. I am sorry, also, to hear that Deckard Cain is causing you much trouble. If I may be frank, I shall say, now, that I have never much liked him myself. I tell you this in confidence—if you leak my words to him, I shall roast you.

Akara has asked after you. She wishes you well and healthy, as she does Cordelia and the others.

Kashya, also, has asked after the both of you. But she seemed less than likely to bite. Perhaps you should expect a note from her soon. But for the love of God, Saul, try not to reduce her to tears again! She has cried twelve days of the fourteen you've been gone. And yes, I say that to induce in you some sort of guilt, though I doubt my words have done their job.

About Cordelia, however—I must ask you not to worry. Lut Gholein is a new environment, after all. You must remember how she was when first she came upon our doorstep? She barely spoke—barely met your eye. It is probably nothing. And as to the gloomy demeanor in which she now holds herself, I attribute it to the fact that she is wearied and sickened by the dry, humid air of the desert. I have never yet met a woman who would enjoy sweating in the sun.

By the way, you should know that your hawk-demon pecks. Gheed was quite distraught after she nipped him several times on the head, but we managed to calm him down with ale and pipeweed. And don't you dare defend her—you know very well how nasty she can be.

With love,

Charsi.

* * *

Master Vyreant,

I have written to Deckard Cain, and he declares himself sound. Therefore, I shall assume that all goes well within your caravan. That, indeed, is good news.

I write to warn you of the stirring evil within Lut Gholein. You may have heard from Charsi that the sands of Aranoch are tainted with the minions of hell. I have long suspected that the defeat of Andariel within the monastery was but a mere beginning to the darkness that is sure to come. We are certain—hell must be stopped before all is lost. There will be others who walk your path, Saul—I am well sure of that. You are not alone, for Cordelia is with you. Others will come to your aid when the need arises. Do not fear, and stand steadfast. I know your chosen path, and I know you will tread in footsteps of glory in later days. Make us proud.

May safe winds find you, young master.

Yours,

Akara.

* * *

Darling Tomei,

I hope this note finds you safe and happy. Many years have passed since last we spoke—and this, I suppose, can hardly equal a good, long talk. I have missed your face, and your voice—and all of your being. I am sorry to have missed your sixteenth birthday. It is an important age, my darling sister. A year ago, you were a child. But I have little doubt that you are grown, now, into a fine young lady.

Perhaps you might find this an interesting thing; I met a girl. Her name is Cordelia. I'm quite sure you'd like her. She's very much like you, in so many ways. She smiles a lot, and laughs a lot. But at the same time, there seems to be so much within her head and heart—but she does not speak her mind. In _that_ sense, as well, darling Tomei, she is a perfect mirror of yourself. She desires the world to ignore her pain, whilst she, herself, darts to and from person, soothing their troubles, and neglecting her own. But perhaps she enjoys her bubble of denial. What do I know, after all? I am but a man.

And more often than not, men do not understand the woes of women, as Lorelei is accustomed to reminding me.

I write, now, because I miss you more than ever at present. Perhaps Charsi has written to you; I travel now through the sands of Aranoch. Cordelia rides beside me; and we are accompanied, also, by two men—one rather odd, and the other, devastatingly annoying. You, my little sparrow, would have made sound work of him with that piercing tongue of yours. I wish you were here.

Do write back. And give my love to your sisters, and to our mam and da.

Your loving brother,

Saul.

Tomy—I should mention, also, that my messenger hawk pecks. Handle her with care; but if she causes you pain, threaten her with sticks and stones. _That_ should amuse her, somewhat.

* * *

Mother, father—

You shall be, I wager, undoubtedly glad of my news. I ride, now, to Lut Gholein; and ere the week is over, I shall arrive upon the gates of the Jewel City. Your plans for my life have begun to unravel. Sleep shall no longer elude you—I submit myself to your wills. I accept your commands.

I accept the promise you have made on my behalf.

Your pawn, bargaining chip, and daughter;

Cordelia.

* * *

My dearest daughter,

I pray long and hard this script reaches your hands. I pray you are safe and sound. I should be glad to hear of you, my darling—but you have not written; not once, since you left us over five months ago. I must ask that you answer, however briefly, this script—your father and I are not inclined to wait. If no word arrives, we shall come in search of you; and that shall be a storm indeed.

Ellie darling, I grow weary of your games. We are concerned for you, your father and I—but if we are to smoothen the wrinkles of our problems, we must first be on speaking terms. You left in such a hurry—and whilst I understand that it was of utmost importance to aid the sisterhood in their time of need, it is also of utmost importance to first inform your family of your departure. You cannot possibly imagine the amount of fear and anxiety you have caused amidst your father and sisters. As for me, what I felt—and what I still feel, is beyond the borders of anxiety. Worry is too simple a word to describe the pain in my stomach.

We shall meet in Lut Gholein. News has reached us, no thanks to you, of the demoness Andariel's demise. No doubt you had a hand in it—and it is all very well. The threat is subdued; you may, and you should return to your family. There is no question of that.

I shall expect word from you within a fortnight. Do not disappoint me.

Your loving mother,

Arlene of the Medjai.

* * *

Star,

_Theoretically_, if mother and father were to attempt to force you to do something you were loathe to do—and I mean, _theoretically_—would you? Would you adhere to their wishes and demands, and sacrifice your own happiness along the way? I know Asha wouldn't—she is much too self-centered to do anything of the sort. I am nothing like you, but I would very much like to hear your opinion on this.

Send my love to our mother and father. I _did_ write them a letter—but I haven't the heart, nor the spirit to send it. It lies packed beneath my clothes' trunk now. I shall burn it soon.

Your youngest sister,

Cordelia Elisse.

* * *

Ellie,

Don't be stupid. Mother and father would never dream of forcing _me_ to do anything I didn't want to. It's _you_ they'd bully,

As harsh as that sounds, you can, as always, count on me—it is the truth. Mother and father both love you dearly, but you, amongst your sisters, are the exact quintessence of obedience. They know me to be cool and distant—and unforgiving. Asha, on the other hand, would not stand for such treatment. Her royal highness is most accustomed to having things her own way—and father allows it; you know how he dotes on her.

You may want to be careful, though. Asha seems somewhat cheerful as of late. It really is quite obvious that she's planning something—and if it does not harm _me_, it will harm _you_. You best ensure that you have a giant, muscular shield of a man to protect you from your eldest sister. She can be quite the gargoyle—but only I'm allowed to say it, because I have to live with her, and therefore put up with her.

Take care, and try _not_ to die on the battlefield. Mother will be distraught, and I'd have to comfort her then. I've got better things to do.

And write them a short note, for God's sake. At the very least, it will keep them quiet.

Your sister,

Estarra.

* * *

Mother, father—

—I ride now to Lut Gholein. Expect my company within a fortnight or so.

Your daughter,

Cordelia.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Yay! Finally, I can toss the Entsteig leg of this fic, and move on to Lut Gholein! This chapter was written mostly at work on my lappietop, so there might be inconsistensies here and there. But for the most part, I actually enjoyed writing this chapter, because letters are so darn easy to do. XD Besides, I thought you all might like to see the other side of our characters' lives. Saul has siblings—you guys know about them. And now Cordelia's family life is revealed, too! There's more to come—juicy, juicy bits of her life. Teehee!

Anyways, I'd like to thank **Ophelion**, and **skopde** for the kind reviews! I'm sorry for the long wait.

Keep your eyes peeled for chapter twenty, entitled, "**The Promise**", which will come, hopefully, soon! Until then, keep reading, and keep reviewing, because there's no writer like a review-happy writer! Thank you again!


	21. Chapter 20: The Promise

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**Chapter 20: The Promise**

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"_In Aranoch, Aranoch gold,_

_The sands of time, so coarse, so bold;_

_Where morns are warm and nights are cold,_

_Where tales of treasures and tombs are told."_

Saul was annoyed.

Twilight had descended upon the deserts; upon the borders of their makeshift camp. The night winds were beginning to increase in strength and speed—it encircled the travellers' feet, creating clouds of sand and dust in shades of gold and grey. Up above in the cloudless sky, the crescent moon lay aglow, lending what light she could to the relative darkness of the desert terrain beneath her. It was a cold night, and the druid had little doubt as to whether their conditions would worsen.

It all served only to annoy him further.

"Have you got the fire started yet, Master Saul?"

He scowled. "No."

Deckard Cain was relentless in his nagging—but to the druid, he was also none other than insufferably intolerable. "You'd best get started soon. The night will get colder, and the beasts will begin to shadow our steps before long. If the fire is not ready by then, they will attack."

"I'd like to believe that a druid of Scosglen knows more of the wilderness than you." Saul countered flatly. The heat of his cheeks and neck were tell-tale signs of the rage-fueled flush rising upon his face. "And if you want a fire started two seconds after picking a campsite, perhaps _you_ should start it instead."

A gentle, warm hand upon his shoulder alerted him that Cordelia had alighted the caravan—she released a languid, low laugh, then shook her crimson tresses from her travel-braid. "He only asks it of you, Saul, because Warriv is ill, and because I am a _mere_ woman." She leaned over his shoulder just then, and, quietly—"I vote to leave him behind whilst he's asleep tonight. Maybe his wild beasts will devour him."

Saul could barely contain the smirk of mild amusement that came upon his lips as the sorceress walked away—then turned to watch the elder mage rather dubiously. But he had not heard. Truth be told, the druid had little idea as to whether relief, or disappointment was the correct reaction. Some part of him half wished the mage to know his distaste—the other half reprimanded the impatience within him.

He grumbled vaguely under his breath—then tugged a pile of firewood from the caravan. It was definitely one of _those_ days.

* * *

The sun had barely begun his journey scross the skies when Saul found himself awakened—he was parched. The last remnants of their fire flickered lifelessly to and from life, and every breath of air brought with it the humid, spicy flavour of Aranoch. Rubbing gently at his eyes, he pushed himself upright—then tugged his water-skin to him. The first cool draught of water felt like ice in his veins, but the sensation was not unpleasant. If anything, it served only to numb the soreness of his chapped and cracked lips.

Somewhere deep within the caravan, Deckard Cain released a low, rumbling cough, before falling silent once more. He was clearly still asleep, as was the caravan-master. Normally, Cordelia would have taken one of the two collapsible bunks within shelter—but Warriv had been taken ill, and she'd had just enough compassion and respect to offer the other to the eldest of the group. Saul didn't much mind the arrangement of bedding—he found himself in better spirits than ever in the company of the sorceress, as opposed to that of the former two. It was so, that they'd spent their nights huddled together by the fire, their backs to one another.

"Are you awake already?"

Saul blinked, then canted his head ever so slightly. "As are you."

Cordelia chuckled grimly, shaking her head just a touch. "I'm a light sleeper."

He smiled, stiffling a yawn as he leaned forward towards her. The scorching heat of the desert had, too, made its mark upon the sorceress—no longer was she fair and pale. Her skin had acquired a vaguely bronze tone to it—and her lips, too, were chapped. Her hair looked somewhat odd, limp beneath weeks' worth of oily buildup. Water was scarcely found in such a terrain, and little could be spared for matters of personal hygiene. But she was beautiful, still, to the druid—even when she began to scowl.

"What are you staring at?"

Saul laughed. "Nothing."

She crossed her arms, drawing her legs to her chest, pale blue eyes narrowed. "My hair is matted to my scalp, my clothes are sand-covered, and I don't even want to think of having to look in the mirror. Now stop looking at me."

"I never said _you_ looked awful." He grinned—but he looked away. "In fact, compared to Deckard Cain—"

"—you cannot _seriously_ be comparing me to him." Cordelia looked somewhat mutinous for a second. But then she crooked a vague smile. "_My_ hair, at the very least, is prettier than his."

"He's got _no_ hair, Cordy..." Saul smirked—and half a moment later, was gladdened to see her throw her head back and laugh. He had not witnessed such a sight in many, many moons. The sorceress had been naught but moody and somber as of late. The sudden change in attitude was more than enough to worry the druid; he had never known a woman to be so unreasonably gloomy at the best of times. But she was smiling now, and that, Saul reasoned, was reason enough to breathe.

They were silent just then, each absorbed in thoughts of their own. It happened oftener than ever now; uncomfortable pauses in conversation that the druid thought could not end soon enough. Perhaps the sands of Aranoch had that effect upon the sorceress—or perhaps it was the thought of the Jewel city that lay in wait for them, now a mere half day away. Sometimes, the druid thought he could see a glimmer—a hint of fear lingering within her eyes. But _why_ fear?

Either way, Saul found himself at a complete loss when it came to understanding just what it was that made the sorceress impartial to their destination. What manner of chains bound Cordelia against Lut Gholein?

_What?_

"So."

Saul started—then chuckled vaguely under his breath as he shifted slightly. "Hrm?"

"I know _that_ look, Saul. What's on your mind?" Cordelia made a face. "Out with it."

"At present?" He blinked. And then, with innocent eyes—"Nothing."

She scowled. "Liar."

"My pantaloons aren't on fire just yet." Saul countered, grinning. "But—ach!" He ducked, a bright blue arc of flames narrowly missing his left ear.

"They were _close_ enough to it." Cordelia was clearly unphased—perhaps she'd had much practice setting things on fire. She gave the druid a small, somewhat devious smile, then set to work examining her fingernails with all the snooty airs of an arrogant wench. "_Very_ close."

Saul made a face, rubbing mildly at the side of his head as he examined her closely. "I'd never known you to be _this_ unkind."

She laughed, but did not turn to face him. Instead, she leaned forwards—then clasped her legs close against her chest. "I wouldn't have hit you."

"I know."

The silence hung thick about them once more—a fog to shield thoughts and companionship. Saul found himself gazing over towards the sorceress every few seconds; but she did not meet his gaze, nor did she speak. The whole ordeal puzzled the druid to an extent, but he did not break the silence. Instead, sighing softly, he mirrored his companion's posture, hugging his legs against his chest. Several minutes passed—and only then did he turn to gaze at her once more.

"Cordy."

The sun began to rise—and it was evident, now, that there _was_ fear in her eyes. He saw her lower lip twitch ever so slightly, and for a moment or two, she looked as if she would certainly begin to cry. "Hrm?"

"At some point, you're going to have to tell me what's wrong with you." Saul began—he _hoped_ his voice was firm. It certainly didn't _feel_ so, at the very least, but the look in her eyes was quite enough to turn his strength into water.

She smiled—albeit somewhat sadly. "Naught slips past you." It was not a question.

"No." He agreed. "I—won't force you into telling me, Cordy. But—well, you should know that my shoulder's always available." He crooked a small smile. "You know. If you ever need one to cry on."

"I know."

Saul nodded once, then sighed. His worry had not abandoned him, as was the same, with Cordelia's troubles.

"Saul." Her voice was but a small murmur.

"Hrm?" He turned to face her once more, but she did not return his probing gaze. In fact, by all accounts, she clear _avoided_ his eyes, as if the mere sight of them would burn her irises to ash.

"I'm sorry."

* * *

"Halt, travelers! Alight and declare yourselves."

Saul frowned his distaste—but had little choice in the matter, so to speak. He bit back the somewhat scathing remark upon his lips, then slipped lightly off the drivers' seat onto golden sands. Before the caravan, the two mares shifted uneasily, one dappled grey, and the other brown-and-beige. Their movements were heavy upon the sand, causing clouds of dust and sand to arise about the feet of the travelers.

For her part, Cordelia conducted herself with more grace than was necessary—and it was with an exceedingly neutral expression that she'd lifted her skirts, then stepped delicately off her seat onto the ground, making only little more sound than an ant, itself, was capable of.

Saul found himself eyeing her wearily; she had said naught to him since they'd left their makeshift encampment, thus increasing his worry of her. True, the sorceress had been much less than her capricious self as of late—but there seemed something else within her now. It was as though she were loathe to enter the city, and yet, resigned to it at the same time.

It made no sense at all, to the druid.

"I declare myself Cordelia Elisse Cyrix, _tia-aldyn_ of the Medjai."

Saul blinked—then slanted yet another glance towards the sorceress. There was a somewhat haughty tone to her voice; she spoke with authority. The thought was somewhat unnerving—there was clearly more to her than she had chosen to show the druid.

With a pang in the depths of his belly, Saul came to realise that there was much, after all, that he did not know of her. At that precise moment, she felt a stranger to him.

Saul cleared his throat. "I declare myself Saul Vyreant of the druid clan of Crëthe Daiore. Traveling with us are two of Entsteig and Westmarch—Warriv, our karavan master, who is just now ill within—" He made a gesture towards the caravan. "—and Deckard Cain, of the Horadrim."

The man, he saw, was young—perhaps twenty years of age. But he did not bear the crest of Lut Gholein, nor the darkened skin of the desert locals. Instead, he was fair—fairer, at the very least, when compared to the natives, and his hair was gold. Upon his shield and chest were an emblem; a golden helm beset with garnets and lengthened feathers—a mercenary. Wary eyes of deepest blue studied them carefully, pausing several long moments upon the sorceress.

And then he smiled, bending at the waist ever so slightly. "You are most welcome to Lut Gholein, fair maiden of the Medjai. And I am honoured indeed to be in the presence of so fine a warrior, Master Vyreant. The tales of Andariel's defeat at your hands has reached us, even here."

"I did not battle the demoness on my own. The victory belongs to three others besides myself, one of which stands before you now." Saul said, grimly. The muscles within his clenched jaw felt somewhat stiff—he did not much like the mercenary.

"Ah, aye. I have heard." Said the other. "Please, do forgive my rudeness. I am Jhennan—and I am come in the command of the Prince, to gain you entry into the city. Long have we awaited your arrival, Lady Cyrix."

Something flickered within the depths of the druid's head. "Surely you cannot mean Cordelia? Surely not?" His voice was flat; he felt somewhat anxious.

Jhennan blinked, but if he was surprised, he did not show much more. His face was masklike—almost unreadable, as he extended an arm towards the hitherto silent sorceress. "Come."

Cordelia pursed her lips and exhaled—but she did not take the offered hand. At the questioning look upon the druid's face, she started; but slowly, and quietly shook her head. "Not now, Saul." The murmured words were soft. Then she turned towards the mercenary once more, throwing her crimson cloak, with unquestionable aloofness, over her shoulders. "Where waits your Prince?"

Jhennan led them through a marketplace of sorts. The men and women bustled to and fro, calling out offers set upon their wares. Pheasants and game hung from ropes above stalls, upon which great, wooden slabs; chopping boards, rested. A corner stall was laid full of fish and marine edibles, large and small, freshly-caught and salt-preserved. Saul watched as the fishmonger gutted a small carp, then turned his head to other sights. Fruit and vegetable were rare; the desert terrain allowed little more than a mere handful of seeds to flourish to full growth. As such, the people of Lut Gholein lived as they could, on what they could depend on.

But at the very least, the water was good. The wells ran deep into the earth, and the water within was clean and fresh. That much could be depended upon.

At length, they found themselves at the water's edge. The great blue sea—Gyurahn, lay crystalline before their eyes. The salty tang of the sea hung heavy in the air, now, but the druid found that it did not trouble him much. Such scents were the scents of freedom. Many a great ship lay anchored within the waters by the harbour, their sailors and captains lounging in the sun by the decks. The sails were many—black, grey, and white. None bore the royal crest of Lut Gholein.

Traders' ships.

It was just as this realization settled upon him that Saul found himself jerked harshly back into the vestiges of reality. He heard voices. Loud voices. Loud voices of angry men.

"Well, pardon me, _my prince_, if my ship be causing you trouble. Rest assured, it is not intentionally done."

Beside him, Cordelia tensed. He reached forward to grasp a hold of her hand, but she moved away, eyes downcast.

"Please understand, Meshif, that I cannot allow you to set sail. Not right now, when we have need of the Merchants' Guild."

"My allegiance is not to you! It is to the Priests of Kurast, who will soon fall! I must return to my homeland."

"Yes. And Kurast will fall without _your_ aid." The prince said, dryly. "I cannot make you understand, Meshif—but it is simply not done. You may not set sail. And that is final."

Saul cleared his throat. Loudly.

It was not without consequence. Both men silenced themselves, turning to gaze towards the newcomers. For several short moments, the druid thought he saw a flicker of shame within the eyes of the prince, but it was gone a second later. The one called Meshif murmured a silent greeting—then slipped away, into a crowd of townspeople, rather red in the face. Saul rather suspected that the colour came from a sentiment besides shame, but he kept this thought to himself.

"My Prince Jerhyn." Jhennan began, somewhat stiffly. "I present to you Lady Cyrix of the Medjai, and Master Vyreant."

"Ah, yes." Jerhyn had, by now, regained what composure he could. It was with a rather pleasant smile that he'd inclined his head in greeting towards the druid. "Greetings, most honoured traveler. I have heard with great relish the tales of Andariel's defeat. You are most welcome to my city. I bid you, stay as long as you so wish."

Saul inclined his own head in return. "Many thanks. But we shall not be long here—it all depends on when our caravan master wishes to leave. I trust you know Warriv of Westmarch?"

Jerhyn nodded. "Aye, I am familiar with him. I am glad that the pass through the Tamoe Monastery has been re-opened. Our traders have greatly missed the fruits of his trade—they shall be glad to have the business routes re-opened, I think."

"He does not accompany us on his own. With us also is Deckard Cain, who is said to be the last of the Horadrim."

"_Said_ to be?" The prince smiled, showing ivory pearls behind his lips. "Come, now, Master Vyreant. You know better than I, that it is impossible for any of them to have survived, save him. Is it not in your history books?"

Saul rolled his shoulders back into a slight shrug. For some odd reason, he found himself, for some reason, completely averse to the prince. Perhaps it was the fashion in which he spoke. "It probably is. But I doubt it is ever impossible for an entire culture to disappear in the blink of an eye."

"You under-estimate the forces of darkness, Master Vyreant. But then again, you _did_ defeat the Maiden of Anguish. I suppose, if _anyone_ were to have such right to speak, you would be him." Jerhyn supplied, rubbing mildly at his chin. His dark eyes twinkled with slight amusement—arrogance, Saul thought. Perhaps the prince was averse to _him_. "But come. Let us not speak of warfare and demons before so beautiful a lady." He motioned towards Cordelia, hand outstretched.

The flickering embers within Saul's abdomen came to life in a crimson instant. He frowned—then slanted a glance towards the sorceress. Her face was, once again, neutral—and her posture was stiff. She said nothing, but lowered her head in silent greeting. Then she sank onto the ground in a low curtsey, skirts billowing out onto the pavement beneath her slippered feet.

"I thank you, Prince Jerhyn, for your kind welcome." She began.

"No, tia-aldyn." In a single, fluid motion, Jerhyn eased his arms towards the sorceress—then lifted her to her feet. "_You_ bow to no-one."

Saul arched a brow—then cleared his throat. He had little doubt as to whether his ears were crimson. His tongue found no words, just as his brain found it near impossible to function. And so he merely cleared his throat, for lack of words to speak.

They stood hand in hand now, the prince, and his—_Saul's_ princess. But she would not meet his eye, nor did she make any motion to suggest that she wished a different man by her side. Instead, she bowed her head, eyes fixed upon the cobbled pavement.

Jerhyn lifted his head, an almost smug expression upon his handsome, sun-tanned face. "I thank you for bringing my bethrothed to me, druid."

* * *

She flinched, though none saw it. Her eyes were firmly fixed upon the ground. She watched the cobble-stones; brown, khaki, grey, and then brown again. Yet she could see the look upon Saul's face in her mind—hear the unpoken words upon his tongue. And still she gazed towards the ground, merely content to shield her eyes from his.

Jerhyn's hand, clasped firmly about her own, was cold—cold and hard. Even as he brought her to her feet, she found herself wishing it were another hand that held hers within it—_that_ hand was warm, and soft. And though it was callused from years of battle, she loved it so, for it would always, always, squeeze hers gently, sharing what warmth it had.

Where Jerhyn would pull her to her feet, she knew, instinctively, that Saul would, instead, kneel by her upon the ground—never forceful, never angry; but patient, and kind.

How she missed the feel of _that_ hand.

Somewhere in reality, she heard a voice shout—"My lord! You must return to the palace immediately! There is something which requires your attention—I cannot explain at present, but please come!"

Cordelia inhaled sharply, her eyes widening ever so slightly. She cared little for the prince's departure—but the thought of that which would come _after_ his departure…

All too soon, the cold, hard hand released hers. She heard him murmur a softened apology—and then the rapid footsteps of boots upon stone announced his departure.

"Cordelia."

She swallowed—but could find no words to say. He had whispered her name; and though his voice remained neutral, she knew precisely how much he wished her acknowledgement at present.

"Look at me."

"Saul, I—" She stammered, hating the quavering of her voice. "I—"

"Look at me." He said, again, louder.

She lifted her gaze ever so slightly; and finally, by some miracle, found the strength to look him in the eye. What she saw did not bring relief.

"Why didn't you tell me?" The druid's voice was a low, somewhat dangerous whisper. This new side of him rather startled her—he had never used _that_ tone on her before. "Why, Cordelia?"

"It's of little importance." She tried to be nonchalant, but somehow, knew she failed.

Saul gritted his teeth, deep grey eyes narrowed to points. "It is _not_ of little importance."

"What difference would it have made, if you'd known? Would you have sought my friendship? Or would you have thought of me only as royalty, worthy of naught but your servitude?" Cordelia countered. "I didn't want that life—and I don't want it now. I can't live with you as a subordinate, Saul. You're a friend. A very close, and very dear friend."

"And you thought it needless to tell me before hand! If I am so dear to you, Cordelia, why did you think me capable of leaving your side?!"

The shouting. Oh, dear God—how she hated the shouting. "It would have made no difference as to whether I told you or not!"

He gazed at her for several long moments. His eyes were slightly bloodshot—was he about to shed tears? _God_, how she wished it were otherwise.

"It would have." His words were soft—softer than the fall of petals upon the ground. "It would have stopped me from falling in love with you."

She stared at him. Stared, and stared—and when she could bear it no longer, gathered her skirts, and turned to run.

But he caught her arm in his hand, and pulled her to him. His face was but inches from hers—and she knew he could see the tears in _her_ eyes. But what he'd been about to say, she never discovered. She turned on the spot, and for several short seconds felt the warmth of his arm about her abdomen—then teleported away into the unknown, pale blue eyes sparkling with crystalline tears.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Bwahahahahahahaha! I am beyond evil, I know. The second Kashya disappears, Jerhyn appears. I can see many of you clamouring to kill me for this new plot twist—but if you're going to kill me, that should mean I get more reviews, right? I know there are those of you who are reading without reviewing. I KNOW IT!

Seriously, guys. It hurts us writers that no one bothers to review anymore. So make me happy, and drop me a line or two? Pretty please with sugar on top?

Anyways! Thanks go out to **Ophelion** for being my most faithful reviewer and reader! She gets chocolates—and the promise of Saul abuse in the next chapter. ;)

Thanks go out, also, to **skopde** for the review—it made me giggle. Thank you!

And also, thanks to **Twin Jewels** for the favourite and alert!

I'll be signing off for now—but here's something to look forward to. Next up—"**Chapter 21: Of Acquaintances and Amazons**". Thanks for reading, and keep doing so! Until then, cheers!


	22. Chapter 21: Of Acquaintances and Amazons

* * *

**Chapter 21: Of Acquaintances and Amazons**

* * *

--

In days of old and lands so gold,

There came to life a child so cold.

With bluebell eyes and rose-tinged lips,

And hair that fell in crimson wisps.

--

So wild a child hath not been born,

Before that golden summer's morn.

O'er fields of green and rivers blue,

She ran and ran, til' night was due.

--

Thus winters came, and summers went,

To fiery child is beauty lent.

And eighteen years of childhood bliss,

Is ever sealed within a kiss.

--

For prince and princess, hand in hand,

A marriage sealed in wedding band.

As ebon hawk weds iv'ry dove,

Forever is the bond of love.

--

"Why—" Saul began, wryly. "—does the princess _always_ marry the prince?"

The hazel-eyed woman beside him laughed, her voice a low, somewhat husky burr. "It is always written in the stars as such, is it not?" She stretched, tossing blood-red locks over her shoulder as she leaned towards the druid. Before the small, gathered crowd, the poet bowed—then departed the square, jingling coin and token in his pouch. "Princes must marry princesses, and in this manner preserve the royal line."

Saul scowled. "You speak of marriage as a means of naught but expansion of the human race."

"In a manner, that _is_ the truth." The woman said, chuckling softly. "There are those who marry for gold—those who marry for status and elevation of ranks. There are also those who marry for convenience." Her eyes twinkled ever so slightly; perhaps she was amused. "It makes just as much sense to marry for heirs."

"Or for love."

She laughed once more, shaking her head just a touch. "I did not think you a helpless romantic, young man."

He scowled again. "I'm _not_."

"You are not a _young_ man?" Heavens be, was she _jesting_ now? And at _his_ expense, too? The thought rather annoyed him. "I had not thought you older than myself—and I have seen three decades past."

"Think what you will." The makeshift seat of wooden crate made a loud, scrapping sound against the grey stone of the ground as the druid got to his feet. "Are all women of your colouring—" He paused, wrinkling his nose as he gestured mildly towards her firestorm hair. "—beset with bladed tongues? _Your_ words, to me, are comparable to roses' thorns—and even the latter lacks your bite."

For a moment or two, she watched him—then smiled. "Roses have thorns, but women can rely on nothing more than their tongues to protect themselves. But I see little sense in arguing this matter—you are clearly in pain. I assume she's a beauty?" She canted her head ever so slightly towards the druid. "The woman who broke your heart for a prince?"

He swore. Then crossed his arms. "Not your business. Not when I haven't a single idea as to who you are."

"Fair enough." She mused, eyes alit with amusement even as she ran a gentle forefinger along the length of her chin. "It is an interesting argument that you present. But I have nothing to hide. If the truth of my being unlocks your business, then you may ask what you wish of me."

"I have no interest in acquaintances." Saul muttered. But the woman chose simply to smile at him—it was somewhat unnerving.

"Ah, such a loner." The woman sighed, though the smile remained upon her painted lips. She got to her feet—then stretched, muscled limbs extending far above her head. "A pity."

"Why's that?"

"You remind me of a certain young man that I called friend many moons ago." She shrugged. "Only, he was much less grim, and much more sociable. But then again—human nature is said to differ from land to land. It would be tedious to meet the same person more than once, I think."

Saul pursed his lips ever so slightly—but could not hide the faint smile upon his face. "If sociability is of such importance to you, then—you may call me Saul."

She chuckled, clasping a hand over her mouth, rustling ivory silk puff-sleeves as she did so. "A pleasure, Master Saul. I am called The Smith, by some. But my name is Fara, and you may use that in addressing myself."

"Fara?" Something clicked within the depths of his head—the name was, to him, somehow familiar.

Perhaps she noticed the look upon his face; for with something of a smile—"It is an uncommon name, yet you show recognition. Perhaps you _do_ know me, after all."

He frowned. "It cannot be. I don't know your face at all."

"Perhaps you have heard of me? Many speak of my smithy as the best in Lut Gholein." She said, crossing her arms over her chest. For a moment or two, Saul found himself marveling at the bluntness with which she delivered her sentence. It was both arrogant, and yet, strangely endearing.

"I suppose." He shrugged, combing back the ebon locks shielding his eyes with his fingers. His hair had grown—where the front of it had barely reached his eyelids several months back, it fell, now, over his eyes. And even then, the back of it was near reaching his shoulders. "But I doubt much that your name arose in conversation regarding arms and armour."

"Ignore that which is said of me otherwise." She smirked. "Unless your ears are light."

Saul made a face. "You, Fara, are the first with which I have spoken within this sand-trap here. I assure you, I have heard no foul rumour of you."

Fara laughed. "Were you not met by our Prince, o' great demon-slayer of Entsteig?"

"Him!" Saul scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. He did _not_ deal well with mockery. "Aye, we were. And I mean no offense to you Lady Fara, but I harbor no loyalty nor love towards him. His very presence annoys me, and I wish him nothing more than bad luck." And then, adding as an afterthought—"_Very_ bad luck."

She placed a finger against her lower lip. Then smiled, though somewhat enigmatically. "So _he's_ the prince who stole your maiden."

"Again. Not your business."

"Ah, but it is. Jerhyn is prince of Lut Gholein—and Lut Gholein is where I make my living. Therefore, you might say that, as a concerned citizen, I have every right to know of my prince's suitors." The smith leaned back, hazel orbs alit with amusement. "You, Saul, travel with Cordelia of the Medjai. It is now safe for me to assume that she _is_ the suitor I have heard of since many, many moons ago."

He lifted a would-be nonchalant brow, though his insides were burning—with hurt, or anger, he had little idea. Perhaps it was both. "How _many_ moons ago, exactly?"

She placed a slender finger upon her lower lip, wrinkling her nose, apparently deep in thought. "Since about ten summers ago, I believe."

"She was bethrothed at eight!"

"Aye, and he was twelve." A smirk—and then, that mild, languid tone again. "About your age, no?"

Saul crossed his arms over his chest—then felt the crevices upon his forehead deepen ever so slightly. "You know too much."

She did not seem the least bit inclined to refute his statement. Instead, she chuckled, shaking crimson tresses over her shoulder as she eyed him, seeming somewhat amused. "I make it my business to know too much. But you, Master Saul—_you_ know too _little_."

He grunted. "What, by God, does _that_ mean? Speak plainly. I find myself quite annoyed at present, and have little desire and strength to consider your mystifying words of infinite wisdom."

Fara laughed once more, though Saul thought he saw a flicker of _something_ within her deep hazel eyes. Was it _pity_? "Cynical and sarcastic. I can see why the princess of the Medjai would not have you."

For some reason, the insult didn't quite hit. Perhaps he was numb to it all—and, severely retorting a clever remark, merely chose to stare at his feet. He said nothing.

"You might have seen this coming, you know. She is _tia-aldyn_ of her people—sworn to honour the bond between her kin and Jerhyn's." She paused a moment, seemingly considering something. Only several short moments later did she opt to speak once more. "I daresay it is not her desire to marry our prince."

"She is a princess in her own right. Should she not have her own say in a choice of husband?" Saul said, quietly. His ears felt as if they were on fire; a fine testament to the rapid rush of blood he felt within his skull. "She shouldn't have to marry him if she doesn't want to."

"She wants to. She just doesn't _desire_ it."

"Again, with your riddles."

The smile upon her face became somewhat wry. Clasping her hands together over her abdomen, she leaned towards him, studying his face intently for several short moments. "She _wants_ to please her parents, and she _means_ to do it. No matter _what_ the cost. Therefore, she _wants_ to marry Jerhyn, though her heartstrings pull her the other way. She is a puppet, Master Saul; a puppet with a heart of its own, that suffers as it is forced into unwanted union with an unknown man."

Saul grit his teeth, exhaling as he clasped both hands over his face. In one, single, split second, his thoughts cleared—and in its place remained but one emotion.

_Hurt_.

He _was_ hurt—he had no desire to deny such a fact. But it occurred to him, just then, that maybe—just maybe, Cordelia was every bit as hurt as he was.

Perhaps she ached _more_.

* * *

Lights.

Sounds.

There seemed a myriad of colours, mingled olives and yellows amidst the golden glow; the makings of a humid desert morning. The air was balmy—warm, as it were. _Too_ warm. _Too_ hot. The cries of desert birds filled the skies, though little of it was perceptible through the bustle and hustle of the nearby marketplace.

She could hear the people calling out their prices. Smell the scent of salt and fish in the air. Feel the heated air about her skin.

Slowly, groggily, Cordelia opened her eyes.

It was several minutes afterwards before she found herself with the ability to comprehend her surroundings. The lights were bright—for the sun of Aranoch shone heavier and longer than the sun of Entsteig. It was all rather foreign to the sorceress—the weather, the air, and the sun. Dear God, the sun.

She moaned softly, kicking heavy fur pelts from her chest and legs as she sat up straight. For a moment or two, she wondered at the need for such coverings—the nights of Lut Gholein were hot as their days.

Perhaps it was the effect of Summer. The season of heatstrokes and of illnesses.

The season of scorching heat and of draught.

The season of unwanted change and stone-carved destinies.

She had never been one to enjoy the Summer. Spring, always, she had enjoyed. There was something about the way that the flowers bloomed that caught her attention, and there was something about the sweetened scents within the air that held her attention so. If anything, the colours were more than enough to keep her spirits high. Autumn came in at a close second. The skies were _always_ shades of pinks and oranges then. The whole effect of crimson-and-olive leaves upon skies of such colour—well, it more than took her breath away.

And winter. The Winter, she loved beyond all reasoning. Sheets of ice and blankets of snow had always been tonic for her moods. Winter was when the Sanctuary became Pure. Clean, true, and pure. There were no lies and deceit in the Winter—naught but joy would find its way into her being in the time of its domain.

She _loved_ the Winter.

It seemed half of forever ago, that she'd seen her last winter. She remembered it well—she'd only just turned eight. The Medjai had settled, that Winter, within the forests of Kehjistan. It had been nothing more than a snowy blanket of ivory upon browns and greens and greys, but it'd been the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.

And still, ten years hence, the statement held true. It was, even now, the most beautiful sight that had ever graced her eyes.

A soft, gentle tap upon her wooden door brought her to her senses. She saw, now, in broad daylight, the entirety of the room she'd in which she'd spent the previous night.

"_Tia-aldyn Cordeillea?_ _Meriech iduvar khiarn khaang ouvbuiden?"_

"_Anu-aang iduvar. Mera khiarn biddenouv._"

The wooden door slid open, creaking softly as it scraped across the floor. Cordelia winced—then got to her feet, turning towards the newcomer.

She was tall for her gender, and petite, appearing even delicate at a first glance. The entirety of her was sheated in alabaster—her skin was, in every essense the embodiment of fairness. She wore her silken, ebon hair in a somewhat severe topknot at the back of her head—and held it up with several tiny, bejeweled clips of antique gold. Dark, exotic eyes of smoky grey were lined with thick, curly lashes. Her dress was of deep blue silk, heavily accented with threads of black and silver. She wore a silken, silver sash, and upon her brow sat a thin, silver circlet, adorned with a single, glimmering sapphire. She was a handsome woman—though no doubt touched by the years.

She smiled. "_Merajhan Vyndarra asa aruiin ane, Cordeillea._"

"_Aruui, Cairanna Atma._"

"_Baranei, Cordeillea. Mera cairn vadei garun arui-aang garnet. Atma weina coufinette._"

Cordelia wrinkled her nose. "If you insist on using such language with me, Atma—then I shall return the favour."

The woman laughed, shaking her head just a touch. Then, smiling, she went towards the sorceress, eyes flooded with gladness and joy. "I have missed you, Elisse."

"And I you, Atma." Cordelia whispered—she was only vaguely aware that her voice was but a mere whisper; and at any rate, she found she could not hear herself.

"It has been many years. Lift your face. Let me see you clearly." She reached out towards the sorceress, and with cool, slender fingers, cupped her face. Grey met blue, as the elder studied the younger. Finally, she spoke. "The years have changed you. You have become a fine young woman."

"Have I?" The younger muttered softly under her breath. "Atma, I feel as if I have not changed in the very least. I feel as I felt ten years ago—trapped."

Atma chuckled dryly, shaking her head as she drew the other to her. "_Inuu_, Elisse. You _are_ changed—I see it in your eyes. Do you think that I know nothing of my charge? Fifteen years I watched you grow. Fifteen years. One does not forget that bond—nor does it decompose through time, as other bonds do."

"You did not leave for Kehjistan with the Medjai." It was not a question.

"_Inuu_." The other repeated—but here, her smile deepened, revealing hitherto hidden dimples within the crevices of her cheek. "I remained."

Cordelia smiled somewhat weakly as she leaned her head upon the other's shoulder. "You remained with Arhaid."

"_Aruui_, Elisse. I remained with Arhaid." She whispered, slender fingers stroking gently upon the sorceress's hair.

"You married him."

"Yes."

"Atma."

The elder woman tilted her head gently, blinking mildly. "Yes, child?"

Cordelia bit her lower lip—then lifted her gaze to meet the other's. "Are—are you happy?"

"I wed a man of my own choosing. He loves me, and I him. And through him, I have a son—and though Kei is not of my own womb, I am happy to have him by my side."

"_Are_ you happy?"

"_Aruui, Elisse. Anu-aang dairugar._"

* * *

The world spun wildly about him—the humidity, the atmosphere, the heat, and the sun. Aranoch was home to hostile conditions—even the winds were no friends to the druid. The sands swirled in swaths of greys and browns about his boots, suffocating; clouding what meager vision he had.

He _hated_ the Summer.

Horrible things happened in the Summer; the weather would turn hot and unforgiving, and often resulted in nosebleeds and fistfights.

Children often fought when hot and bothered.

He scowled—then twirled about, hating the dusty mist that rose to his face. His eyes were beginning to water.

The demoness before him hissed; and the druid had a single seconds' glimpse of the narrow, braided whip, before it came into contact with the side of his face.

He toppled over onto the sand, releasing a heavy grunt as his vision went blurry. He tasted blood. Yet before he had time to process his new circumstance, the sharp hiss of braided rope upon sand caught his attention—and, with hasty difficulty, he rolled over, then jumped to his feet.

_Felines_. He was fighting _felines_.

The demons within Aranoch were varied. He'd encountered, thus far, sand-leapers; giant, poisonous-looking toads, with scaly, clawed, and webbed fingers. He'd encountered, also, parties of vultures—vicious, blood-seeking hunters, on the prowl for blood and flesh. For several short moments, Saul found himself imagining them feasting—then blanched. The mere thought of beak upon intestine and raw liver brought bile to his throat.

And now, late into the afternoon, he'd encountered feline demons. Wild cat-women, with bestial yellow eyes, fur-covered flesh, and paws where hands should have fit.

And by God. They had _tails_.

The whip came at him once more—but this time, he was ready. He jumped aside, narrowly avoiding yet another lick of the demoness's weapon. Again, and again he ducked; and as he did so, flicked his staff about at random intervals.

It seemed half of forever later before he felt the jolt of staff upon whip. He gave the staff a rapid jerk—and breathed once more as the whip came loose of its owner's palm.

Seconds passed in deafening silence. The demoness stared as Saul drew his blade to strike, shocked into silence and immobility.

Then, emiting a faint, rasping gurgle, she crumpled onto the floor at his feet, a crimson-fletched arrow buried deep into the side of her neck.

"Hesitation will cost you your life. Strike first, for none within Aranoch will spare you that chance."

Saul growled quietly under his breath.

It was a woman.

The grains of sand were caught, still, within his eyes. He could feel blood upon his cheek where the whip had struck. There were several angry welts upon his arms, souvenirs from his previous assailants. Yet his pride told him to remain still—to remain calm.

"What do you want?" He grunted. His vision was beginning to clear, if ever so slightly. He narrowed his eyes, as he squinted towards her.

Amazon.

Heavily layered locks of platinum and honey fell about her forehead, ears, and shoulders. Her eyes were of shades of blues and greens, delicately flecked with gold. They were, just then, narrowed ever so slightly—but if she was in any way wary, she did not show it otherwise. Her skin was deeply tanned—and, as she gave her jewel-encrusted bow an idle twirl, it struck Saul somewhat ironic that, despite his first impression of her, she could easily pass as a desert local.

But it was impossible that she was born of Aranoch. The Amazon in her was clear, despite her shadowed complexion. The clothes, her weapons—it all bore whispers of her home, and of her heritage. She wore about her torso a crimson corset, and sleek, ebon pants of polished leather. About her waist hung several smaller pouches, amidst crystal vials of crimson and blue. A quiver of arrows rested strapped against her back, and her cloak, a thin, black thing, hung limp from one shoulder.

She grinned. "Grumpy. Very grumpy."

Saul scowled. "If it is in your agenda to taunt and insult me, _Amazon_, save your words. They do not bother me."

"Ah, but they do." She laughed—then stretched her arms out behind her; and with casual ease, deposited bow into quiver. "My words had _some_ effect on you. I mean to say, they caused you to _scowl_, didn't they?"

He narrowed his eyes—but found that he did not quite have the strength to argue. Instead, the druid gritted his teeth, then turned his back to her. "Think what you wish."

"For your sake, I do wish you'd take my advice." Her voice was somewhat mild—languid, and careless. For some reason, it rather annoyed him. "Hesitation will cost you much."

"Not your business." He growled, clenching his fists. His temper had become rather short as of late.

"No. Certainly not _my_ business." She agreed, tossing platinum locks over her shoulder. "But I rather disaprove of suicide, or of any behaviour that _resembles_ suicide, however minute the resemblance is."

"I am not suicidal." Saul countered. "And even if I were, it is _none_ _of your business_."

She smirked, looking somewhat vaguely amused. "Are you _always_ this sociable? Your warm and caring nature _really_ just brightens the day. In fact, that smile upon your face makes me feel as if I could sing for joy."

"Why, yes. I am, in fact, _always_ this sociable. People _crave_ my attention and conversation, and I _never_ fail to charm the ladies. In fact, _every_ room I enter _glows_ with my brilliance, because I _am_, after all, an alien, glowing artifact of a human man. I radiate _happiness_." Saul crossed his arms over his shoulders. "And _yes_, I _was_ being sarcastic. In case you missed that little random fact."

She blinked mildly at him for several short seconds. "…are you quite, quite sure you're a man? Your temper suggests otherwise."

"Quite certain. I would sooner die than to become one of your impossible gender. Your kin have fair tormented me these past few days." He hissed through gritted teeth. "Now leave me be, _Amazon_, before I _really_ lose my temper."

"Certainly. The second you show me solid proof of your ownership of these lands, I shall leave you be. Otherwise, I have every right to be here." She examined her fingernails somewhat languidly—then lifted her gaze to his eyes once more.

"Why can't you just _leave me alone?_"

"Because I don't want to. Because, by _God_, you are just so _fun_ to annoy."

He frowned. "Leave me alone."

"Duel me, and I will." She smirked.

"I beg your pardon?" Saul lifted a dark brow. He was genuinely surprised now.

"Fight me. If you win, I will leave you alone. If I you lose—well, I'd suggest you get used to my presence. However annoying you find me to be."

Saul found himself staring in wide-eyed, disbelieving silence towards the amazon. Surely, surely, she was not serious?

"I'm quite sure there is a law against stalking."

"I'm quite sure of that myself."

"I am not going to fight you!"

"Why? Because I'm a mere _woman_? O' great, muscular _man_ of a hero?"

"I am _not_ going to fight you!"

The smirk upon her face deepened ever so slightly. "Are you _scared_ I'd beat you down? I'm _half_ your size."

His ears were burning crimson. He was sure of it. Obviously a repitition was necessary. "I am _not_ going to fight you! And that is the end of that!" He turned, and, mustering all the indignance he felt, began to stride away.

But he had barely walked five steps before she spoke again.

"Pity."

Saul turned his head ever so slightly to face her—then, in a single, split second, realised his mistake.

The amazon tossed her hair over her shoulder—then came at him at a run. Two steps from him, she leapt into the air—and half a second later, had pinned him to the ground.

She smirked—then leaned close into his face. "Like I said. Hesitation will cost you much in Aranoch."

* * *

**Vyndarra-Common Translations**

"_Tia-aldyn Cordeillea?_ _Meriech iduvar khiarn khaang ouvbuiden?"_ **Tia-aldyn Cordelia? If you are awake, may I enter?**

"_Anu-aang iduvar. Mera khiarn biddenouv._" **I am awake. You may come in.**

"_Merajhan Vyndarra asa aruiin ane, Cordeillea._" **Your Vyndarra has greatly improved, Cordelia.**

"_Aruui, Cairanna Atma._" **Yes, Cairanna Atma.** (Note: Cairanna is a respectful term, often used to address one's elders in the Medjai-Kiel.)

"_Baranei, Cordeillea. Mera cairn vadei garun arui-aang garnet. Atma weina coufinette._" **Really, Cordelia. You need not call me that. Atma will suffice.**

"_Inuu."_ **No.**

"_Aruui."_ **Yes.**

"_Aruui, Elisse. Anu-aang dairugar._" **Yes, Elisse. I am happy.**

* * *

**Author's Note:** Oh Dear God. I am so, so, sorry, you guys. I know that this was an exceptionally long wait, but I just couldn't write.

I know its no good excuse for the delay, but I got dumped a couple of weeks ago. And I just lost all will and desire to write then—because I fell completely to pieces. So here I am, pleading guilty to making y'all wait so long—but with reason! **SORRY! **

I'm not sure if this chapter turned out the way I wanted it to turn out, and it is possibly one of my weaker chapters, too. But still—I tried, and I decided that to make you guys wait any longer would be crazy, and suicidal. I've had several death threats already. :p

A big thank you to **Ophelion**, as usual, for the review! I'm sorry for antagonising Jerhyn for you—he's such a sweetheart in your fic, too. XD And PLEASE UPDATE WHEN YOU HAVE THE TIME. I am in great need of a fix of Nyhl. I miss Nyread fluff. Unngh.

Thanks also go out to **skopde**—don't worry. I haven't abandoned the fic. And I never will!

To **FantasyFreak4Life**—here's hoping you've gotten over your desire of killing me. Thanks for the review!

To **Harold**—wow, 10/10? Really? Thanks!

To **Silvia**—driving my characters insane is what I thrive on. I live on making their lives hell! Bwahahahahahaha!

…no, really. I honestly, really do feel bad for them. But I can't just let everything run smoothly and happily. That'd take away the zest of the actual story, and I'd start losing readers. And yes, Ria shall return. But you'll only meet her again in Act III, along with a brand new paladin character called Darius. Until then, I'm counting on Saul, Cordy, and my new Amazon PC to keep you amused and occupied. Thanks for the review, though!

To **Syntium**—Thank you! And I'm glad you enjoy the poems; I love writing them.

To **Luna**—Oh Dear GOD! You're BACK! Thank you for coming back! And don't worry—you will _definitely_ see Ria again. She's far too juicy a character to give up just like that. So keep reading and try not to lose interest again! XD

To **TheBlackKnight**—One PC coming right up. Enjoy, and thanks for the review!

Well. That's it for now, folks. In the meantime, keep reviewing! **I CRAVE REVIEWS** to get over my ex boyfriend. Pretty please with sugar _and_ honey on top?

Until then, peace out, and look forward to the next chapter, "**Chapter 22: Broken Home**". Bye for now!


	23. Chapter 22: Broken Home

* * *

**Chapter 22: Broken Home**

* * *

"Pass the butter, Kei."

"Pass the butter, _please_, Mia."

"I _can't_! It's too far from my reach! Besides, I asked _you_ first!"

Cordelia snickered softly under her breath, shaking her head as she spooned sugar into her steaming mug of rose-and-orange tea. Seated halfway across the wooden kitchen table, Atma coughed softly—then rapped gently upon the table. At her wordless reprimand, the children silenced themselves, each returning to their bread in manners most docile.

"Pass the butter _please_, Kei."

"Here you go, Mia."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Atma caught the sorceress's eye—then winked. "_Ajei, Cordeillea_. Where goes your spirit this morning?"

Cordelia shrugged, rubbing gently at the side of her head as she lowered her tea. Wispy clouds of steam wafted carelessly over the top of the mug, creating idle patterns in the air. The gentle, tickling warmth rather wearied the sorceress; sleep had eluded her the previous night.

She was _exhausted_.

"I don't know."

"_Surely_ you must be curious? You have never been here before." The elder woman tilted her head gently, the faintest of smiles appearing upon her lips.

"You needn't remind me of _that_ particular summer. My memory serves me just fine." Cordelia scowled in response.

"Oh, come now." Atma chuckled softly. "You _know_ your father left you in Gavandur's care for a reason."

The sorceress wrinkled her nose, crossing her arms over her chest as she shook deep-auburn tresses over her shoulder. "It wasn't that he left me with Gavandur—It was that he left me with Gavandur whilst he, and mother, and Asha, _and_ Estarra, _and_ you left for Lut Gholein. And then they came back _without_ you! What was I to think? I was eight!"

"Of course, my love. You were merely eight. Your father thought only of you when he left you behind." Atma crooked her lips ever so slightly. "The desert road is a treacherous path, and our journey was long. It was best you did not come. But, I'm quite sure that you've since heard of the journey from your sisters."

"_Star_ told me of everything she deemed interesting in the city—" The sorceress smirked. "—in _one_ sentence."

Atma made a low, exasperated sound under her breath; yet amusement lingered within her eyes. "That sounds _very_ much like Estarra. How is she, my darling?"

"Bored half to death of Asha and of our tiresome cousins."

"I never knew her when she _wasn't_."

Cordelia hid a smile—then nodded. "Apparently, she's seen her first _death_. It sounded awfully gruesome—but she seemed to enjoy it."

"She has the makings of a true seer." Atma nodded in approval. And then, with a bit of a wry smile—"Whose bad fortune was it to hear of death from _our_ princess?"

"Asha's pet bird."

Atma blinked. "Skaran? That small, annoying little—"

"Yes. _That_ Skaran." Try as she might, the sorceress simply could not erase the remnants of the lingering smile upon her face. "Apparently, he died proclaiming his love for his mistress."

"Tsk. He wasn't even a _talking_ bird, to begin with." Atma waved a nonchalant hand. "He merely _listens_, and _repeats_."

"Which means that it was _entirely_ probable that Asha wrote his deathbed sonnet for him."

"_Entirely_ probable, my darling."

Cordelia chuckled softly under her breath. "Sometimes, I _do_ wonder if we're all too nasty about her."

"She _is_ your sister, darling. And your eldest, at that." Atma shrugged mildly. The children were done with their breakfast; and though they were both long gone to play, their emptied plates remained for the mother. But she did not complain—and with patience most virtuous, reached out to stack the porcelain pieces together. "Perhaps Star, and yourself, should consider a different approach when speaking with her."

"_I_ could. But you know Star as well as I do, Atma." Cordelia wrinkled her nose. "She's _never_ going to be _nice_ to Asha. Not even if _you_ tell her to be."

Atma laughed softly at the remark, though she did not speak. Instead, with something of a faint smile upon her face, she pushed herself to her feet, lifting porcelain plates from table-top and bringing them to the wash-basin in the sink. Moments of silence passed between nurse and ward, the former humming softly as she rinshed away the remnants of the morning meal. Beyond the borders of the window-sills, the children laughed, their voices loud and clear in the humid desert air. Cordelia shook her head slowly from side to side; the sweet flower-fumes of her tea were beginning to stiffle her. She cursed softly as her eyelids drooped ever so slightly—and, reaching out, grasped the mug in her hands once more.

"Cordeillea..?"

The sorceress blinked, startled. "Hrm?"

Atma watched her in pregnant silence for several short moments. When she spoke, her voice was low—and her tone was somewhat cautious. "You travel with Deckard Cain, yes? Him, and another?"

"Yes." Cordelia nodded stiffly; and, for lack of anything better to say, lifted the mug to her mouth. The tea was hot—so she lowered it once more, wrinkling her nose. "Him, and one other."

"That man—he is of Scosglen, is he not? A druid of the wilds?" Having finished with her dishes, Atma turned; but there were no traces of laughter upon her lined face. Merely curiousity, and mild concern. "Have you known him long?"

"Why are you curious?" The sorceress scowled, lifting her pallid eyes to the elder's greys. "He's no-one of consequence."

Atma pursed her lips, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned back against the wash-basin. "Yet your voice changes at the slightest mention of him. I may not know _him_, Cordeillea; but I know _you_. And if you refuse to speak of him, it is clearer than ever I thought."

Clearly, the nurse was _annoyed_, now.

Cordelia narrowed her eyes. "His name is Saul Vyreant. He has four sisters; Adynne, Lorelei, Tomei, and Seirra. He is a druid of Scosglen, but has since re-located to Entsteig. He lives in the Rogues' Encampment with his cousin, Charsi. And it has been five months since we met." She hissed, her voice tense. "Is there anything else you wish to know? Perhaps a detailed family history? I swear, I've had _ever_ so much time to communicate with him, though my motives of travel were naught but the defeat of the demoness Andariel."

A glint of something flashed across the elder woman's eyes; and for a moment or two, Cordelia half thought that she'd gone too far. But Atma, throughout the Medjai, was best known for patience—a quality the sisters had lacked since birth.

Now, she merely blinked; once, and then again, in placid, but rather pronounced distaste.

_Passive aggression._

"Forgive me, then, _tia-aldyn_. It was not _my_ place to ask." She said, her tone dry, and cool. "But if I may once again cross the boundaries of appropriate behaviour to state the obvious—" Here, she paused, her eyes blazing, as though daring the sorceress to stop her. "—you are very clearly caught in a dilemma of sorts. I am much obliged to tell you that you shall soon be nothing short of miserable, if you don't sort your problems out, now."

"Really, now?" Cordelia pushed herself to her feet, wincing slightly as the chair scraped heavily against the wooden-tiled floors. "If you truly believe that I am to be miserable, then perhaps you should have thought to _stop_ my parents when they decided to _marry_ me off!"

"It is _my_ fault now, is it?" Atma gritted her teeth—her voice was low, now, an almost dangerous whisper. "But deal with this problem however you wish, _tia-aldyn_. I shan't get in your way as you deny _everything_ you hold dear. Deny myself; deny what love you hold for the druid. Yes, I say _love_!" She drew herself up rigidly, her eyes narrowing. "Because I _know_ you. If there is anyone within the realms who knows you _more_ than I, it is Estarra. You cannot lie to _me_. I am _not_ so _easily_ bullied into trust."

"You're just being _ridiculous_, now!" Cordelia slammed her fist upon the table; she could feel the scowl upon her face deepening, and her cheeks were warm. Yet she found she did not much care. The unsaid words threatened to overcome her being, choking her soul, her thoughts. "I am _not_ in love with him." And then, as though attempting to re-assure herself—"I'm _not_."

Atma released a somewhat exasperated grunt; then turned her back to the sorceress. "Stubborn child."

Cordelia started; and for several short seconds, merely stared into the back of the elder woman.

It _hurt_, fighting with Atma. Not only because the nurse had been, to her, the epitome of a _best friend_.

But it hurt, because, just then, Cordelia found herself in true understanding of the word _betrayal_.

She swallowed, inhaling sharply. And without another word, strode across the sun-lit kitchen, into the bright, noisy streets of Lut Gholein.

* * *

The skies were _always_ a deep and rich shade of orange above the golden sands of Aranoch. It was the effect of the everlasting summer within the deserts; dry, musk-scented winds, blistering heat, and bursts of sandstorms in the wildest of moments imaginable.

Aranoch was, in every essence, a _dangerous_ land.

A _wild_ land.

Yet, within the walls of the jewel city, life _continued_, as always, it had; through sheer endurance and determination to survive.

The desert locals had _that_, at the very least. The _will_ and _determination_ to live.

It was near mid-day before Saul found himself within the walls of Lut Gholein. The market was silent, now; the locals had long since returned to their homes to begin the day's chores. Few roamed the streets, and those who did just then were children, lost in games and various forms of childhood amusements.

The druid cast a sideways glance towards the woman beside him—then scowled. "Why are you _still_ following me?"

The amazon stretched her arms out, chuckling dryly as she tossed platinum locks over her shoulder. "Like I said earlier. You, master druid, are _much_ too much fun to annoy."

"Couldn't you annoy someone else? I even know _just_ the person for you." Saul grumbled. "Deckard Cain. Sits in the center square. Talks in circles a lot. He's _perfect_ for you."

She laughed. "I pick my own victims, I'm afraid."

"Wonderful." He muttered in reply, turning away.

"Well, then." Her footsteps were light upon the cobblestones as she quickened her pace to stride alongside him. "You're going to see a lot of me, and I, you. We might as well make each others' acquaintances."

"Not interested." Saul gave his staff an idle twirl about his hand, canting his head just a touch.

"Oi." The amazon sighed deeply, shaking her head. For a moment or two, Saul thought he saw the slightest traces of exasperation in her eyes—but then her lips curled upwards into a would-be smile. "You're no more sociable than you were three days ago."

"You mean, three days ago, when you forcibly tackled me to the ground?" He grunted. "No. I'm afraid I have little patience for you, o' great Amazon stalker."

She laughed once more, her voice a low, husky burr. "Come now. Don't be such a grouch. I'll give you _mine_." She paused, her footsteps coming to an abrubt halt as she lifted her bow to block the druid's progress "I'm Araeya Adrielle Basette. But most people here call me Aya. _Or_ the sharp-tongued, Amazonian bitch. You choose."

Saul lifted a brow at her; then scowled. And, in rather a grudging manner—"Saul Vyreant."

She smirked, then, with a sort of languid grace, twirled her bow about her fingers once—then returned it to its sheath. "See? Now _that_ wasn't so hard, now, _was_ it?"

"Will you go away _now_?" Saul said, somewhat hopefully. "Please?"

"Psht." Araeya rolled her eyes. "Fine. Since you asked _ever_ so nicely. I'll be back, though, so don't get _too_ comfortable."

The druid scowled. "Oh, I wouldn't _dare_."

"Smart. I shall, no doubt, run into you later—" She ran slender fingers through her hair, lips curling further as she did so. "—Saul."

He made a face—then muttered, dryly. "No need to hurry."

"Oh, I _never_ do." Araeya chuckled; and without skipping a beat, fell out of pace.

Saul blinked—then turned.

And just like that, she was _gone_.

This fact, like so many others regarding the amazon in question, did not come as a surprise to the druid. Three days; three long days spent in the company of one so wilful, and so sharp-tongued. He'd spent the days in the blistering heat of the Rocky Waste, every second, hoping, as a fool was to, in such a situation, that she would take heed of the tempestuous weather, and finally leave him be. But she'd done no such thing, choosing, instead, to tread upon his every step, slaying demons that were rightfully _his_ to slay.

She took great pride in her agility. Many times, the druid had found himself moving to strike—then stepping back in disgust and irritation as his quarry fell to the ground with arrows embedded within their lifeless forms.

She was _that_ quick.

It all annoyed him to no end, and she was well aware of it.

Saul scowled, brushing his hair from his eyes as he came to a stop at the edge of the harbour walkway. The deep blue sea; Gyurahn, lay wide open before him, and, just beyond the crystalline blues was the sparkling horizon. He inhaled sharply, stretching, as the crisp, salty tang of sea-water hit his lungs.

Silence. Beautiful, golden silence.

A seagull released a shrill overture from within the cloudless skies. The druid watched, eyes narrowed against the bright sun as the bird dived, then ascended once more into the sun, ivory wings outstretched.

"Beautiful afternoon, is it not?"

Saul blinked; and the silence, rare as it had been, was gone. He sighed; then turned to face the speaker.

It was the captain. The one who'd taken it upon himself to argue with the Prince of the Golden City.

It took all of two seconds for the druid to decide that he rather liked this man.

"You're that man who hates Jerhyn." Saul began—then swore quietly under his breath. He'd not meant to say _that_ aloud.

The other blinked once, tilting his turbaned head ever so slightly. There was a bit of a sheepish smile upon his bearded face; perhaps he was embarassed at the comment. At any rate, Saul found he could not blame him. It was, after all, a rather horrifying thing to be remembered for.

"The name's Meshif."

"Saul."

"Pleasure."

Up close, it was only all too clear that the captain did not belong within the ranks of the desert locals. He was tanned, it was true; but his tan was that of weathered skies and stormy oceans. Naught of his visage spoke of days spent beneath the scorching desert sun. His eyes were of a bright, crystalline aqua; they reminded the druid of the sea. He wore upon his broad-shouldered torso a loose, wide-collared tunic of ivory muslin, and a rough-cut vest of scarlet flannel. Beneath the folds of his ivory turban, Saul saw, were several protruding locks of a deep, chocolate brown. He was, in every essense, a man of obvious strength.

"How can I help you, Captain?" Saul blinked placidly—then inclined his head ever so slightly.

Meshif rolled his broad shoulders back, shrugging mildly. "I require no help, nor have I an ulterior motive."

"Oh?" The druid crooked a vague smile. He was somewhat amused. "That's a first so far. At least on _this_ side of the Sanctuary."

The other chuckled dryly, shaking his head just a touch. "You seem to suffer from extraordinarily bad luck, then."

Saul smirked. "Clearly."

Meshif wrinkled his nose slightly, lifting a thick and calloused hand to shield his eyes against the sun as he lowered himself onto the ground—then grunted in relief as he sat down. "So. What bothers you this day, Saul?"

"Too, too much."

"Really, now?"

Deep within the skies above, the seagull cried out to the heavens once more, the melody a slow, and mournful whisper. For several short moments, the two were quiet, choosing merely to gaze into the stillness of the oceans. The winds were present that day, and the chilly sea-breeze tickled gently at their faces—a tonic for the wearying heat.

"What do you know of—" Saul began, quietly. "—Araeya?"

The captain lifted a casual brow as he cast a sidelong glance towards the druid. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the druid thought he saw a hint of mild surprise within the other's eyes. "What _of_ her?"

Saul shrugged. "What is she doing here? So far from home?"

"…the same could be said of _you_." Meshif grinned. "You, too, are far from home, are you not?"

"True _is_ true."

The captain chuckled quietly. "So. Why _do_ you ask of Aya?"

Saul wrinkled his nose, lowering himself onto the ground beside the other. "She's taken to following me about the desert. And I just want to know if—maybe, just maybe—she has a reason for that."

"I would've thought that reason was obvious." Meshif rubbed lightly upon his bearded chin as he turned towards the druid. "She's very much like you. You, and the lady you travel with."

"Cordelia?" It was now Saul's turn to chuckle. "You're drawing a parallel between Araeya and Cordelia?"

"I don't mean to say that they are similar in personality." Meshif smiled wryly. And then, as though the words were bitter in his mouth—"But her motives for travel are very much similar to yours. She is running away from her past—and at the same time, running towards the end of this siege of darkness."

"I'm not running away from anything. And neither is Cordelia." Saul grunted; but he knew full-well that it was a lie.

Meshif shrugged. "Perhaps I am wrong, then. At any rate, Aya is here not because she desires to be here. She is here merely because she would rather _not_ be somewhere else."

"A troubled past, then?" The druid canted his head to the side, blinking once or twice. "That's why she's out in these wastelands? Risking her neck and life?"

"Yes. That sounds _just_ about right."

Saul blinked once—then stiffened as an icy chill settled upon the dockside. He turned; and was surprised to find a look of similar surprise upon the captain's face. It half reminded him of the face _he_ used to make whenever Kashya deigned it necessary to grace him with her presence; and yet, there was something different about _this_ look.

Where Kashya had always exasperated him, Meshif looked almost—_happy_ at the sight of the amazon.

"So. Are you two boys done talking about me yet? Or shall I retreat and give you more time?" Araeya crossed her arms over her chest, smirking just a touch as she tossed her hair from her eyes.

Meshif chuckled quietly, shaking his head as he got to his feet. "Master Saul here was simply curious of you, Aya. Perhaps it is up to you to tell him why you trail his footsteps, then." He inclined his head towards the druid—then smiled. "_I_ shall retreat."

"I shall, no doubt, see you later, then." Araeya offered a somewhat lazy smile towards the captain. "I need to break your neck for spilling my past to Saul here."

"I'm looking forward to it." The captain laughed openly—then clasped the amazon gently on the shoulder, before striding off into the empty streets.

Saul raised his eyebrows somewhat mildly. "Such a pretty exchange."

"I suppose you've had your share of them." Araeya said mildly. She stretched—then strode towards the druid, her footsteps light. "But come. Don't change the subject. Why did you ask about my past?"

"Curiousity, I suppose." Saul shrugged, his tone bland. "I merely wondered. And he provided answers."

She snickered, shaking her head as she shifted her gaze towards the sea. "And are your questions answered?"

"Not exactly."

Araeya was silent just then, her stance rigid. It seemed half of forever later before she moved—but when she turned towards the druid, it was with rather critical eyes. She studied him for several short moments, unblinking, unmoving, her brow creased to reveal the depth of her thoughts. When she spoke, her voice was low. "Right, then. Let's clear some things up."

"Firstly. _Why_ I left home, or why I refuse to _return_ is none of your business, as of now. _When_ I come to trust you, I shall tell you. For now, let's just keep it at that." She began. "Secondly. When I began trailing your steps out in the desert, I had but one motive on my mind; I wanted to help. The lands of Aranoch are dangerous to those who do not know them. I have little idea as to what we're dealing with here, but I _do_ know that I can't deal with it on my own. That I seem to annoy you is only an added bonus. It's amusing, to me, at the very least, when you scowl."

Saul blinked once. "Wait a bit. So—" He began, somewhat cautiously. "—basically, what you mean is that.. you're here to fight?"

"_Evil_, yes." The amazon agreed, nodding briefly. "With you, now, it would seem."

"What was that?" Saul frowned, brows knitted together as he pushed himself to his feet. "I was not under the impression that I had agreed to accompany you on the battlefield."

She blinked mildly at him, eyes mirroring placid indifference. His face was but inches from hers. "You don't have much of a choice, really."

"Oh? Why's that?" The druid raised a narrow brow. The amazon was a good foot shorter than he was—yet the look upon her face was quite enough to cause him discomfort. It was as though the mere steel of her gaze could spear his thoughts and mind. "I am not bound in oath to protect this city."

"That's a pity." Araeya said, cooly, lifting her hands to examine her nails with something of a smirk upon her face. "Jerhyn has made it quite clear that no ships are to leave the port before the darkness is quite contained. I'm afraid you'll have to remain here until then. But I'm _sure_ you shan't be at a lack of amusement. If you stay long enough, you may _just_ be able to witness the union between the prince and that pretty little red-head you travel with."

_That_, Saul thought, as he grunted in response, was rather a low blow. He scowled. "I don't care who _she_ marries. And I wouldn't remain _here_ for all the riches of the realm."

Araeya shrugged, though her eyes never left his. "_Denial_, Saul Vyreant, is a bloody ocean. You would do well to not drown within its watery depths. It's clear you care for her." She paused, her lips thinning ever so slightly, as though she were deep in thought. And then, quietly—"And the only way you _can_ turn, from here, is _back_. I don't suppose you desire _that_ path."

She inclined her head gently towards the druid—then turned on her heels, and, without another word, strode quietly away, leaving, in her wake, a grim fog of darkness and doubt.

* * *

Desert nights, as a rule of thumb, were generally cold. The mornings were hot, and humid, the air still and warm, often tinged with the faintest scents of coconut and herbs. Every once in a while, the earthly spirits would grace the people with cooling winds in the heat of the day—but only very rarely did this take place. In such a pattern, the nights were cold, and often chilling to the very bone. When the warmth of the day faded away into the biting chill of night, darkness descended, and golden sun was replaced with silver moon.

Night had come _too_ soon.

She strode along the darkened streets, skirts rustling quietly between her legs as she moved. Overhead in the cloudless heavens above, the silver stars twinkled, endlessly, like sequins upon a blanket of prussian blue. The city was silent.

She'd spent the day in quiet solitude within the city walls.

Walking. Just walking, an idle shadow of her former self; _walking_, without _knowing_ precisely where she wanted to go.

Where she wanted to _be_.

She just didn't know.

And so she walked. Walked, and walked, and walked, ignorant of others in her path, and mindless of the merchants peddling their wares. She walked to find _purpose_—for hers, like the mornings' warmth, had dissipated away into absolute nothingness. She walked to find _reason_.

She walked to escape the nightmares of the morning.

"Cordelia?"

She blinked. The misty haze upon her eyes lifted; and all of a sudden, the world was solid once more.

The man was middle-aged; but if he was a year over fifty, he didn't appear so. His eyes were grey—not unlike that of Saul's. Shoulder-length, ebon locks lay swept back, streaks of grey and silver visible between the wavy locks. He wore robes; mage robes, of shades of crimson, magenta, and gold, and in slender, bony hands, carried a gem-topped, gnarled staff of polished elder.

He tilted his head gently at her, eyes mirroring slight concern. "You _are_ Cordelia, are you not?"

Cordelia nodded—but fought to keep her confusion hidden away. She did not speak.

"Ah, I thought so." The mage chuckled dryly, shaking his head ever so slightly as he stepped towards her. "Forgive me, my dear. I'd forgotten how prone you are to being startled. I suppose you don't remember me?"

She shook her head; still, she did not speak.

"I don't blame you." He inclined his head gently—then offered his hand in a sweeping gesture. "Now then. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance once more, Miss Cordelia. I am Drognan; and I am a mage, and a star-gazer."

Something clicked in the back of her mind. Cordelia blinked, pallid eyes deep with thoughts of the past. When she spoke once more, it was with an almost child-like uncertainty—and her tone was low, somewhat curious. "When I was five—" She began, quietly. "—I came upon a mage, not of the Medjai, within our encampment. I was, and remain the sole woman magician within the Medjai—and he bade me show him my skill. He was, in some ways, my first mentor, though we spent but two weeks in each other's company."

Drognan crooked a vague smile, but it was _his_ turn to remain silent. He said nothing.

"You are him." Cordelia finished quietly. It was not a question.

"Yes." Drognan agreed. "I am him."

The memories, repressed, as they had been for many years, came rushing back from the deeps of her mind. The sorceress took the offered hand—and in Medjai fashion, clasped it firmly between both _her_ hands, then leaned forward to press her cheek to his. "It has been many years, _Araduinn_ Drognan. You haven't aged a day."

He laughed, cupping her cheek as he drew back to gaze upon her visage, as Atma had done. "But you, princess, have become a fine woman. I am proud of what you have accomplished. The slaying of Andariel cannot have been easy on you."

"The victory is not merely mine to claim." Cordelia muttered quietly. She'd grown somewhat weary of the subject—far too many thought it prudent to mention it. "There were others who battled long and hard by my side."

Drognan nodded slowly, though he did not question her further. Yet, he opened his mouth to speak—but was almost immediately interrupted.

"Drognan!"

Cordelia blinked once—then turned towards the newcomer.

It was a woman of considerable height, crowned with locks of deepest crimson. Her eyes were hazel—and, at the moment, full of anxiety. She cast a sidelong glance towards the sorceress, but otherwise made no sign of having noticed her. "Drognan, you must come."

The elder man narrowed his eyes slightly, his brows furrowing in slight confusion. "What is it, Fara?"

The woman's lip seemed to tremble ever so slightly; but if she had tears within her eyes, she hid them well. "It has happened again."

"Again!" Drognan rose to his full height, his eyes widening just a touch. "Who, now?"

Cordelia found herself upon the brink of bewilderment. Their conversation made little sense to her.

Half of forever later, she gasped—then slowly, slowly, as if in a dream, swallowed. The woman was speaking once more.

"It is Arhaid. Drognan, you'd best come, _now!_"

* * *

**Author's Note:** Well, there we are—chapter 22, people. I am SO sorry that this chapter took so long. I have no excuse, other than the major swamping of me under work, university applications, and writer's block. But things should start to go uphill from now. I'm officially done with work, and my uni doesn't start until… July, or August. So I've got a whole month to write!

After I finish my Samurai Duelers' League duel with **Ophelion** on deviantART. XD

Thanks go out to:

**Ophelion**, for calling me OCD enough to be compared to Tolkien. It's the best compliment I've ever received! I'll see you around after I get back from KL, neh? For now! GUILT ALL AROUND! XD

**FantasyFreak4Life** for threatening to kill me. Again. xx

**skopde** for making me feel better about the idiot ex.

**Luna**; heh, there will be a necromancer joining the ranks in act IV. Be ready for him! And, write! Write! We need more Diablo fanfics out here, so write!

**Glacio Iceblade**; here's to more hooked-ness!

**Silvia**—I'm actually not half as annoyed at Deckard Cain as Aya will be, in the later chapters. I'm glad you like her, and I certainly hope her character's colourful enough to keep the now gloomy Saul and Cordy dream-team in good humour! Thanks!

**BloodHeron**—your review actually made me giggle in glee. Thank you so much!

**TheBlackKnight**; Thanks! I hope this chapter was a little better. I'm still trying to get my chi back, but it'll soon be back to normal. I promise.

**Fallen Dragonfly**—thanks! And I'm glad, out of all the fics, that you chose mine! Makes me feel honoured and happy-giddy inside. Teehee!

**BloodyFingersInc**—I'll try, but I haven't much time these days. Thanks for thinking of me, though.

And last, but not least to **Dalia Blackwing** and **flint02** for the favourites and alerts.

Again, I am SO sorry for the long delay! I'll work extra hard to serve the next chapter while its hot! It's entitled, "Ocean of Fire", so keep your air conditioners on! Until then, keep reading and keep reviewing!

Ta!


	24. Chapter 23: Ocean of Fire

* * *

**Chapter 23: Ocean of Fire**

* * *

The early morning clouds drifted lazily with the gentle, tickling breeze; the golden sire of the skies had not yet risen. Shades of greys and blues dominated the entirety of the desert sky, dotted vaguely with shimmering silver stars in perfect constellations about the pallid morning moon. Whispers of the morning air rolled about the curves of the earth; a cosmic hymn of silent peace in a land of fire and death.

And thus dawned a new day.

Silence reigned supreme within the streets of Lut Gholein. The locals had not yet risen; for even the earliest of birds had not yet begun to crow.

It all spelt naught but desolation to the sorceress.

Her footsteps were soft upon the cobblestones, as were those of the man beside her. He was silent; he said naught, though every now and then, out of the corner of her eyes, she thought she saw his gaze upon her face. But she ignored him—pretended not to realise, for she had not the heart to converse at the particular moment.

At length, they came to the entrance of the palace; but it was not up the steps through the ivory marble columns into the royal hallways that he'd deigned to lead her. Instead, with a smile both rogue-ish and enigmatic, he took her hand, and, ignoring her gasp of surprise, tugged her through a small, narrow gate into the palace grounds.

Cordelia blinked—then flushed a ruddy pink as she tugged her hand gently from the prince's grasp, at the pretense of brushing her hair from her face. His hand felt foreign; his fingers were cold. She coughed softly, crooking a vague smile.

He hadn't noticed her aversion to his touch—and if he had, he did not show it. Prince Jerhyn was not so easily pushed into discomfort. He returned her smile. "This is my favourite place in all the city, Cordelia. I merely wished you to see where I had spent my days prior to our meeting."

Cordelia chuckled faintly under her breath, then nodded and slowed her pace to match his; he ambled, and she strode. Such differences in gaits made it difficult to converse, as he so obviously wished her to. "The gardens, Prince Jerhyn? I had not thought you a man of green tastes."

"I enjoy the blossoms. The scents, and gentle rustling of the trees about me. It brings a man to peace, as a man is hard-pressed to find these days." He paused, watching her in silence for several short minutes. Then, with rather an unassuming smile—"Perhaps, Cordelia, in light of our situation, you may call me Jerhyn."

"Forgive me. I had meant no offense." She murmured. "I had thought it perhaps insolent to address you so commonly."

He smiled. "We are to wed. You may call me that which you wish, my princess."

Cordelia inclined her head gently in his direction—then turned, and resumed her usual pace. Perhaps he sensed her discomfort, for he then became quiet; and thus preserved a dignified silence for several long moments. Yet, he quickened his pace, and in doing so, came, once more, to stride beside her. She could, again, sense his eyes upon her; but she did not acknowledge his silent glances—nor did she think it prudent to encourage such behaviour.

Such scrutiny often made the sorceress nervous.

"How is Atma?"

"Better than I had expected. She will heal in time." Cordelia exhaled quietly, and, with slender fingers, reached upwards to run her fingers gently through her hair. "It has been—" Here, she paused a moment. For some strange, unknown reason, word upon the tip of her tongue eluded the grasps of her conscious mind. "—_difficult_, to say the least, for her. I'm sure you'll understand."

"Aye. I understand. It has been but two days since the unfortunate accident." Jerhyn said, his tone a low, quiet baritone.

"Accident? It is no accident. It was a direct attack upon your citizens." Cordelia muttered dryly. "When was it that these raids began?"

The prince's tone was crisp—it was clearly a topic within which he found much discomfort. "A month or two ago."

"You chose to withhold this information." The sorceress found herself scowling, despite the inner chidings of her conscious mind. Ladies did not scowl as she did so, now—but she had little patience for the mannerisms of high society at present. "Where are your city's defensive forces? Your men should be preparing for battle, ere we speak. Yet, I see no such preparations; and what men I see seem in no greater hurry than to rush to the confinement of _your_ palace!"

"There are matters of grave importance to be attended to within the palace." Jerhyn said, his voice clipped. "I have assigned mercernary guards to the protection of the city and it's inhabitants."

"Mercenary guards." Cordelia paused—then halted in her steps, turning in her stance to gaze, with an almost defiant passion, into the prince's eyes. "And where were _they_ when a good husband, and father, needed them?"

He inhaled, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly. She saw him clench his fist; and for the briefest of moments, thought he would strike her. But several long moments passed, and he did naught, save to gaze in bitter silence upon her face. And then—"I see no importance in your desire to better acquaint yourself with the military positions of my city. It is quite clearly none of your business. There is, at any rate, no need for you to enter the frays of battle. It is too dangerous for one of your stature."

"My stature?" Against her better nature, Cordelia found herself rising to his challenge—she was shivering now, but not from fear.

She was _furious_.

"You are a woman, and soon, shall be a wife. Wars are no place for one such as yourself." Jerhyn concluded. Gone was the charming prince—and in its place, now, was an asp with a wicked tongue.

_Beautiful. My future husband is a sexist bastard._

Cordelia bit, hard, upon her tongue, willing her temper to calm itself. She tasted blood—yet, she found herself trapped within the very borders of her patience.

Just then, at that moment in time, Cordelia Cyrix decided that she'd discovered yet another being that had managed, with apparently no difficulty whatsoever, to incur the wrath within her as the Rogue Captain had once done.

"If that is truly the way you think, my prince, then perhaps I should be in the house of my keeper. We are not chaperoned at present." She said, at last, with as neutral a tone as she was able to muster. "A mere _woman_ should not be in the presence of so great a mind as yours."

She'd turned to leave—and had almost begun to step away; but he was the quicker of the two, and in half a moment, had her wrist in his hold.

She stiffened, but did not turn to meet his gaze. "What?"

"I'm sorry." His words were whispered. "Cordelia, I'm sorry."

She could feel the blood pounding within her skull—but his tone was genuinely contrite; penetrating even the harshest of sentiments she felt for him at present.

"I'm sorry. I—I let my emotions best me. My words were harsh, and… you have done nothing to deserve my behaviour towards you. I was… my words were nothing short of angered attacks that were spoken at the beck and call of an arrogant and incomprehensible ass." He murmured—and his grip of her wrist tightened ever so slightly.

Perhaps he was afraid to let go.

She did not meet his eyes as she cast her gaze from him—but her anger had not yet subsided enough. She didn't quite trust herself to speak just yet.

"Cordelia, I'm sorry." He repeated.

She could sense the impatience within him for her answer—_that_ much was evident in the increasing strength with which he gripped at her; but she found she could not much blame his sentiments towards her. It had become quite obvious that she was, indeed, rather cold to him. She _was_, at present, the very quintessence of disdainful indifference. It was quite the combination to fear, if instilled within one such as herself. She knew it well.

She _was_ furious. But that he'd only just called her one of the weaker sex had precious little to do with the raging tempest within her breast.

_He_, after all, was not the cause of her torment.

_He_ had not arranged her marriage to him, at the very least.

She sighed quietly—then, slowly, twisted her body to face him, and, forcing the smallest of smiles, said, "Thank you for your concern, Jerhyn. It means a lot to me—and I am sure it means the world to Atma. I shall convey your best to her."

The prince blinked at the mention of his name, and at the apparent forgiveness with which he was granted, but almost immediately hid his surprise beneath a rather small smile of genuine happiness. "I thank you, my dear."

Cordelia nodded once in response, but could find no other remark to make. Instead, she withdrew her hand from his grasp, taking care to do so gently—then cleared her throat softly, and, having decided to simply focus upon placing one foot before the other, said naught. As was before, the silence was near unbearable; horribly uncomfortable.

It seemed half of forever later before the prince deigned to open his mouth once more. "So."

"So." The sorceress echoed.

He chuckled quietly, shaking his head as he lifted his dark, chocolate eyes to hers. "Have you heard from your family as of late?"

"Yes. We exchanged letters briefly on the way here." She murmured, careful to keep her tone as neutral as was possible. It would not do to reveal the internal strife of so happy a family in façade.

How she hated the _mention_ of her family.

"Ah, yes. Misty as my memory is—" Jerhyn paused, smiling, as though attempting to make light of the conversation. Perhaps he had, after all, noticed the change in her cadences; and if so, even she, Cordelia, had to admit that he was, in all, a rather observent being. "—I could've sworn I remembered the sight of an exuberant court of nobles and royals in all a flutter as the messenger hawk swooped in upon them. I should've guessed it bore _your_ letter."

Cordelia found herself agape in slight disbelief; and out of habit, tilted her head gently aside as her brows began to meet at the center of her creased forehead. "Was—was my family _here_?" She said, barely containing the shrill overtones of shock in her volume. "In Lut Gholein?"

Jerhyn chuckled softly, clearly amused at one such look upon her face. "Aye, princess. They were."

"What, by Horazon, were they doing _here_?"

"A visit." The prince blinked once, and then twice. His amusement had long since departed into the realms of the unknown, and the look upon his face, now, was one of surprised bewilderment at her reaction. He'd clearly not expected such an ourburst—particularly not from his bride-to-be. "Such a visit is not uncommon, you know—especially if we are to wed. It would, however, be uncommon if I had little relation to you, and the royal family of the Medjai." He paused, arching a slender brow as he crooked a smile. "I had thought you would be glad for news of them."

"I didn't say I _wasn't_ glad." Cordelia mumbled quietly. For a moment or two, she watched him, as he watched her—then she turned aside, lifting a hand to shield her mouth as she cleared her throat gently.

"Your face says it all." The prince supplied gently; and before she could protest, reached out towards her with his hand, cupping her cheek to lift her eyes to his. "What troubles you?"

"Nothing." She lied, hating the hasty undertones in her voice. "Nothing's wrong."

His eyes were dark and thoughtful as he drew his hand from her face. "I don't believe you."

Cordelia found herself frowning in slight exasperation. She released a low, quiet sigh, but before she could speak, he'd raised a hand to silence her.

"I don't believe that nothing is wrong. I would be a fool to believe so." The prince continued, his tone steady and even. "But you may keep the reasons to yourself, if sharing makes you uncomfortable. I am not one to submit to force."

The words were upon the tip of her tongue—yet the prince shook his head, willing her with his eyes to remain silent.

"I do wish, though, that you may, one day, share with me as you so obviously do with—" He paused, the faintest of scowls appearing upon his face, as though the words in his mouth were bitter. "—the druid."

"He's just a friend." She mumbled quietly. Yet she found she could not meet the prince's gaze—could not _bear_ to look him in the eye.

"Aye." Jerhyn's tone was her own; quiet, with solemnity beyond his years. "Just a friend."

And, with half a glance upon her visage and the faintest of smiles upon his chapped lips, he turned his back to her, and strode away into the deeps of the gardens.

* * *

"Where _are_ we?"

"Be quiet."

Saul scowled, releasing a somewhat impatient grunt as he flicked his hair back. "I will, as soon as you tell me where we're headed."

The amazon made a low, irritable noise, rather like a cat.

Rather like Cordelia, when _she_ was annoyed.

"By God, Saul, you're ten times as annoying as a middle-aged woman. And you're a _man_, no less, too." Araeya grumbled, drawing an arrow from her quiver and notching it to her bow. "We are in the region of the Dry Hills. Be on your guard." She paused—then turned towards him. "And _what_ are you smiling about?"

He blinked; and, shaking the sorceress from his thoughts, rolled his shoulders back into a placid shrug. "Nothing. The Dry Hills, you say? What are we looking for in here?"

She narrowed her eyes against the desert winds as she took aim with her bow. "I'm not sure, exactly. But the demons we'd encountered thus far have _got_ to be coming from _somewhere_. We're going to find that source. And we're going to destroy it."

"We are, are we?" Saul wrinkled his nose as he cast his gaze in the direction of her prey.

A low, whizzing hum arose within the air as she released her arrow to the winds. Half a second later, a shriek of terror rang clear through the the desert terrain; the arrow had found its mark.

Araeya gave her bow a quick, reflexive twirl about her hands—then turned to face the druid. "You needn't say it as if it were something nasty. We're doing a good deed for the world. You ought to be more gracious about it."

"That's your master plan? Do you think, that if we slay enough demons—that if we save a hundred cities, and even more children, that we will be accepted into paradise without further question?" He replied, through gritted teeth. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he could see a gaggle of feathers and rising sand, amidst squawks of avian descent. "That's all very nice and well, Araeya. But _that_ is the afterlife. You slay demons and demonkin, as do I. But the visions of their passing stay in my memory—mine, and I am not one to forget easily. Yours, too, shall haunt you in years to come."

"You're only a year older than I am." The amazon observed mildly, plucking yet another arrow from her quiver. "Stop speaking as if you were twenty years and more my senior. It does not become of you."

"_You_ don't even know me that well. Perhaps I speak like this all the time." Saul countered—then lifted his staff in preparation, brows arching, as his eyes confirmed his earlier suspicion; their enemies were marching upon them.

She spared a second to catch his eye—then scowled, so he could see. "If all this does not gain us paradise, why do _you_ do it?"

"As of now? Because _you_ forced me into it."

The amazon released a low snort as she let fly her second arrow, and then, almost immediately after, drew a third. "I meant _before_ you came upon this hell-hole."

He smirked, rolling his eyes as he waved his staff about the ground, once, and then twice; and the sand parted. And as though it were a crack in glass, the ground opened up before the two, revealing a river of boiling lava in shades of brilliant reds and oranges. The steam arose in red-hot clouds of white and grey, enshrouding the two within a shield of hot, sandy mist. All across the half-league between the druid, the amazon, and their enemies, the landscape twisted and shifted, exposing more of the lava river; and those unfortunate enough to be upon the path of destruction were, in mere instants, buried in blistering hot ash.

Few of the undead scavengers survived; and those that had sense enough to take flight were immediately shot down by the archer amazon.

It seemed half of forever later before the last of the lava crumbled away into dust and ash; and the mountainheaps of sand, which had, at the earth's bidding, piled themselves at the sides of the sunken river of fire, began to shift, the effects of the druid's spell now lost to them—and the golden grains returned, once more, to the deeps of the desert grounds.

Satisfied, Saul brushed his robes off—then turned to face the amazon. "To answer your question. I do this, not because I wish to secure my place in paradise. I do this because I wish to have a good life _before_ I make that final journey into the realm of the unknown." He paused, having caught her attention; then smirked. "My reasons are somewhat cliché, I'm afraid, for one of my path. Nature calls out to me for aid. In order for me to live in joy amidst her sunny shades, I must help her cleanse the Sanctuary."

"Spoken like a true tree-hugger." The amazon tossed her hair over her shoulder; she seemed mildly amused. "So you don't care what becomes of your soul when your body burns." It was not a question.

Saul chuckled grimly, and, with a humourless smile—"I _do_ care. But, to put it simply—I quite prefer to think of what is to become of me now, as opposed to what becomes of me when I die. Life, in itself, is definite; it is merely the length to which I live that is indefinite. But whilst I live, I wish a good life—and the spawns of Hell, are, as of now, standing in the way of _that_ dream. When I die, I shall, at the whim of our God, either be saved, or be spared; and that is as indefinite as the sky is blue. _I_ fight now, to ensure my happiness for the life that _is_ definite." He paused, his eyes upon the silent amazon. "You, Araeya, fight because you wish a life in Paradise, beyond the borders of the Sanctuary. You believe that, by simply purging the realms of all that is dark and evil, that God shall smile upon your soul when you die. Perhaps you are right. But I think—"

She arched a slender brow, as though awaiting the remains of his speech.

"—I think, you'd do better, Araeya, by being less hard on yourself when it comes to this. The walls of this Sanctuary won't collapse if you choose to exempt yourself from battle every once in a while." He finished.

The amazon blinked once, and then twice, in rather a placid manner. Then, in quiet, wistful undertones—"It seems you have me pegged, Scosglen Wolf."

"Have I now?" Saul lifted a casual brow—then chuckled quietly. Yet, the laugh died in his throat; for, next, the element of surprise came upon him as a wave upon sand.

The amazon leaned close to him, eyes slightly narrowed, the smile upon her face unfaded; and in a low, husky burr, whispered—"It seems you have me pegged—"

He stiffened; and at her silence, found himself further aggravated. Her breath was warm upon his ear—she made no effort at keeping an appropriate distance.

"—all wrong."

"All wrong?" Saul crooked a vague smile; then chuckled as she drew away, the renmants of a somewhat smug smirk upon her face. Relief flooded his veins; and it was quite enough to keep his indignance at her obvious lie at bay. His mind had quite, quite begun to run away at the nearness of her being—and in retrospect, he wished he'd had the use of his muscles in order to push her away on _his_ terms. "Ah, well. I tried, at the very least."

_It could have been worse. She might have kissed you. Then you'd be in a whole lot of trouble._

Araeya released a low, amused snort, tossing platinum locks over her shoulder as she narrowed her eyes, then leaned her head back to gaze into the cloudless desert skies. Several short moments passed in silence, in which the druid was content to merely stand, and to observe. Then a shadow swooped overhead, and, just as quickly as it came, disappeared, it's source landing with a ruffled squawk upon the druid's shoulder.

_I haven't met your pretty little amazonian friend. I wonder what Cordelia would say about this new arrangement of yours, if she knew._

Saul scowled slightly towards the bright-eyed hawk upon his shoulder. "How long does it take to send a letter or two?"

Ceres clicked her beak mildly. _It takes time, you know. A bird can only fly so far, so fast._

He shrugged—then turned towards the amazon, who stood with her arms crossed, a slender brow crooked to show slight impatience, if not amusement. "Araeya, Ceres. Ceres, Araeya."

"Charmed."

_Likewise. Not that she can hear me, of course. But at the very least, it is polite._

They stood in silence for several long moments—the druid, the hawk, and the amazon. At length, the latter stretched; and, in a tone gently tinged with mild amusement said—"Well. Are we going to stand here the whole day, or are we to continue in our search for the source we discussed?"

Saul wrinkled his nose, narrowing his eyes as he turned to study their surroundings. The desert winds had begun to pick up; and all around them were clouds of dust and sand. "We can't keep searching on foot like this. It'd take forever, and we'd be buried alive before we found the source."

Araeya made a face. "Well, what would _you_ suggest, then?"

"We need to send out a scout to study our surroundings. The deserts are too vast—we cannot track the demons by foot." Saul muttered; but knew the amazon would not hear him. The ringing of the winds were harsh, and loud within the depths of his ears. He repeated his sentence, speaking up—and found her understanding in a single, yet slightly annoyed nod. She said no more in response, choosing, merely, to cross her arms over her robust chest, eyes narrowed against the rising sands.

_I know what's on your mind, and I hate you. _Ceres rustled her tail feathers several times, shifting her footing upon his shoulder somewhat indignantly.

The druid sighed—then reached sideways to poke at the bird's wing. "There's no other way, Ceres. If I'd had wings, I'd fly off in a heartbeat."

_I have no doubt of that._ The bird clicked her beak impatiently—then leaned forward, and nipped him hard upon the ear. _But you owe me. Again._

"Do you take seeds as a form of payment?" Saul smirked—then scowled as she nipped him again. "Ach!"

_Sunflower. The finest of Lut Gholein. At least two bags worth of them._

"You're quite the bargaining master."

_But of course. _And, with a last, somewhat more affectionate nip, the hawk flapped her wings once—then again, before soaring away into the golden skies.

* * *

"An ale, an ale, missy!"

"Coming!"

Cordelia took a deep breath, steadying herself—then reached forward to lift the heavy wooden tray upon the bartop. The mugs slid gently aside; and the golden-brown ale within them sloshed messily about for several short seconds. She held her breath, halting all forms of movement—then exhaled in relief, when she was sure that nothing was, at the moment, likely to spill over onto the ground.

The nights of Lut Gholein often saw the desert locals within the walls of Atma's establishment. The men, in general, were hard workers; and their nightly drinking parties were but a pittance of merriment and good cheer in contrast with the darkness and death of that which they endured on a daily basis. They _needed _their time together—the togetherness of a community in which men were brothers, and women were sisters.

Atma had refused the closing of the tavern, even if it were to last but a single night—she, as well as any, knew how important the social workings of the citizens were.

She'd refuse to neglect them this one pleasure—this one comfort.

Cordelia pursed her lips, wrinkling her nose as a stray lock of crimson hair fell from it's braid into her eyes. She scowled—then blew at it out of the corner of her mouth; her hands were tied up about the handles of the tray. The common room of the inn was crowded full of men; young and old, of various heights and builds—many unaware that their hostess for the evening was entirely new to such a profession. With difficulty, she wove through the crowds; then exhaled in relief as she'd found her way, at long last, to the table to which the drinks in her tray belonged.

She smiled—then slowly, with trembling hands, set the tray onto the shiny wooden surface. The men were soldiers and mercenaries, jovial, racuous, and friendly, each offering thanks in manners most profound at the appearance of their new hostess.

"What is so pretty, a lady doing, serving us nobodies ale?" One spoke, his deep brown eyes twinkling in amusement. "Come, grace our table with your glowing presence! Have a drink with us!"

Cordelia chuckled quietly, shaking her head as she wiped her hands off upon the skirt of her apron. "Oh, that's right. I'll just do that, and leave the rest of the men in here in wait for _their_ drinks."

"That sounds just about right!"

"Maybe next time." The sorceress grinned, leaning forwards to place the round of foaming ale tankards at the center of the table. "When I'm not quite so swamped with work."

The dark-eyed one laughed, tossing a wave of deep-brown curls over his eyes as he offered a wide, somewhat brazen grin towards her. "I'll hold you to your word, beautiful."

"I should hope not, Garuthan."

Cordelia blinked once, her arms falling limp to her sides as the tavern fell into an orb of silence. Garuthan and his colleagues had been, in mere seconds, silenced; and they sat, now, in an almost docile fashion, sipping their drinks in an almost obscenely quiet manner.

Their expressions were mirrors of her own. An unpleasantly surprised air to the eyebrows, mildly tinged with discomfort about the edges of the lips.

She took a deep breath—then turned, offering a small smile that she knew to look false. "Hello, Jerhyn. What brings you here tonight?"

The prince's smile was deep as he took her hand. "You, dearest." He paused, leaning forwards to press his lips to the back of her hand. "Now, come with me."

"Wha—Jerhyn! I can't leave the shop!" Cordelia protested, even as he began to tug her towards the door. The thud of wood upon wood hit her ears as she realised that her tray had lost it's balance; and she thanked the stars that, at the very least, there had been no ale upon it to spill away. "_Jerhyn!_"

He pressed a finger to her lips as he, with something of an enigmatic smile, pushed the door open to lead her away into the darkness of the night.

Cordelia was only vaguely aware of the various landmarks they passed as he pulled her along. Few roamed the streets at such late hours; and the corners of the city seemed darker than ever. Yet, the prince pressed forwards, singularly determined, despite the challenge of darkness.

_He_, at least, knew the city as home.

At length, they came upon the steps into the palace, where several ranks of military men stood guard. Cordelia wrinkled her brow ever so slightly, leaning back to gaze upon the pale marble-and-gold threshold above the heavily lacquered double doors. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she could see the guards hissing amongst themselves; but a quiet look of reprimanding from their prince brought silence to their throats. He squeezed her hand gently—then drew her through the wooden doors into the dimly-lit foyer.

"What's this? Where are we going?" She leaned into the prince's ear, her voice low. There was something odd about the palace—an aura of lingering fear and darkness. It didn't help much, that Jerhyn's guards were more than unusually hostile at present; she could feel their eyes upon the small of her back.

Jerhyn chuckled quietly, shaking his head as he planted yet another kiss upon her hand—then pulled her aside, and, ducking beneath a crimson crepe curtain, resurfaced by her side in a cool, side balcony overlooking the gardens.

The glimmering stars in the heavens above were but minute dots of light within a blanket of darkest midnight, meticulously arranged by the heavenly beings in intertwined constellations. The pale, silvery moonlight shone down upon the balcony, providing what little light it could in the relative darkness. For several short moments, Cordelia found herself gazing in wide-eyed wonder towards the heavens above.

Within the palace of Lut Gholein, the stars seemed to shine with a _different _kind of fire.

And, despite herself, the sorceress began to smile.

"Cordelia—?"

She blinked—then turned towards the prince. "Hrm?"

His smile was deep and true as he knelt upon the ground before her, her hand clasped within his. Her pallid blue orbs were reflected within his chocolate browns as, from within a pocket of his rich purple tunic, he withdrew a glimmering golden band set with a large, square-cut diamond. "Marry me."

It was _not_ a question.

Arranged marriages were _never_ questions.

And it was in a moment of somewhat shocked silence that the sorceress stood her ground, her hand clasped within that of the prince's, as he, a smile upon his face, slid the slender band onto her ring finger, then stood, and, disregarding the standard etiquette as was required of the royal family, leaned towards her and pressed his lips against hers.

And at that precise moment, the light of the stars seemed to dim; and the world, as the sorceress knew it, was engulfed within the shadowed troubles of anxiety and frustration.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I know, I know. I'm late again. The truth of the matter is that writing this chapter has been like pulling teeth for me. I joined Zutara Week on dA, where I had to submit an art piece every day, for a whole week. That, I suppose, took up a lot of my time.

…and yes, I've been busy, too. I'm sorry, guys! Here's hoping I get the next chapter done sooner, mmkay?

Oh, and also, also, also! They've finally announced Diablo III! Which means there will _definitely_ be a sequel to this fic! Squeal and spazz, guys, it's good news!

Thanks go out to **Ophelion**, as usual, for helping me out when I was losing my groove and writing mojo!

Thanks, also to **skopde**, **Fallen Dragonfly**, **Luna**, and **FantasyFreak4Life** for the reviews.

And thanks to **Encouragingyouth**, **Tel Loiryn **and **DiLlUsIoNaL-SpEcTeR** for the favourites and alerts.

Keep reading, guys, and sorry, once again, for the long wait! Look out for the next chapter, entitled, **"The Tavernkeeper's Son"**, which shall be coming out soon, I promise!

Until then, it's Emmy out for now. Ciao!


	25. Chapter 24: The Tavernkeeper's Son

* * *

**Chapter 24: The Tavernkeeper's Son**

* * *

There was _Mist._

_Mist_ and _Rain_ and _Dew-kissed_ blades of grass.

The chilly night winds were heavy with trepidation; touched by destiny and fate. The stars knew it. The glimmering, pallid moon, mistress of the night, knew it.

And the sky; the cloudless desert sky, cloaked in the richest celestial velvets of prussian blues, knew it.

The push and pull of the waves upon the city walls were loud against her ears; a crash of saltine liquid upon walls of gold and brown—and then another, and another, and another. It was passive, and it was violent. The nature of the sea was as such.

She stood upon the harbor of the Jewel of the East; the Port City of Lut Gholein. Even from afar, the horizon of the seas—the line of convergence between sky and sea was visible to her. The light of the stars glittered upon the surface of the water—reflecting heavily from ripple to ripple, and wave to wave.

She stood, and she observed. Her hands were limp upon her sides; she knew the laws well.

To gaze into the future required a peace of mind beyond emotions. Required a force of will to bend even the most obstinate seers to submission; to passive observation.

Here, within the subtle, yet distinct laws of time; past, present, and future, one could not sway to emotions—one could not aid one side, nor another. _Time_ was not to be toyed with.

Here, within the subtle, yet distinct laws of time, one was to observe; one must not alter the events of the past, present, or future.

Twas' the debt of the seers; forever doomed to see, and never to act.

Yes. She knew the laws _very_ well.

She watched as the man, tall and strong, with a beard to rival her grandfather's, fought; she watched as he was, despite his valor, defeated.

She watched, grim-faced, now, as he was dragged into the catacombs beneath the earthen grounds of the Golden City.

And then _time_ seemed to fly. The Lady of the Night skies came away, and in her place rose the Lord of the Day, bright and golden as ever a great Star was. He fell; and his Lady replaced his domain once more. On, and on, this pattern remained; day and night, and night and day.

And then it happened; and she knew.

The flash of crimson crept, slowly, into the early morning skies. Rosebud pinks and mandarin oranges lined the edges of the horizon, amidst the crisp, golden yellow of the early-rising Sun. Yet her eyes were not upon this sight—beauteous though it was.

She saw a boy; young, perhaps in the summer of his fifteenth year. She saw his face, muted with silent torment and sheer determination.

And she knew.

She watched, silent, unmoving, as he stole across her, his footsteps light upon the ground. For a moment or two, his eyes caught hers; but if he recognised her presence, he did not show it.

How easy, how easy it would be for her to simply reach across the barriers of time and space; to take him by the arm, and to lead him home to his bed.

To his mother.

But she knew, even as he slipped onto the stairs by the edges of the city, that he would not live to pass the same way once more. To stop him would be but a doom upon both the boy, and herself.

The trial of seers; to see, to withstand the temptations of offering aid. She had passed it many times.

But never before had the trial weakened her resolve so, as it did now.

Her heart felt heavy within her chest, and her throat was dry. She lifted her left hand, wincing faintly as the golden bangles within her wrist slid upon one another; then flexed her fingers slowly, gently. The false extention upon her little finger was of beaten gold; a narrow, pointed nail.

She sighed; then traced a line of symbols and runes of the Ancient Order upon the air before herself. Her eyes were shut—she did not require sight for such tasks.

The lulling whispers surrounding her form amidst the chilly winds of time and space told her but one thing.

_It was done._

She opened her eyes, and saw her pale-blue orbs reflected within those of her mother's.

Arlene of the Medjai was not one to rise quickly to fear. But there was fear, now, and trepidation within the careworn lines of her face. "What did you see?"

She narrowed her eyes; then rose. While she stood, she was a head and more of greater height than her mother—but the elder woman possessed the regal commands of royal blood; the proud and dignified air in which she wore her posture and expressions. A lady was _always_ aware of herself.

In the presence of her mother, the _bayu-aldyn _of the Medjai-Kiel was more child than woman; and she was very rarely a child. But she sought to steady herself; enough, perhaps, to calm her mother, before choosing to speak.

Her voice was a low, silky murmur as she began—"Atma's son will die in four hours." She paused—and, sensing impatience within her mother's countenance, "You, as well as I, know that Cordelia is not one to sit idle in the face of such darkness. She will face his assailant—of that I have little doubt."

A glint of anxiety flashed within the amber of her mother's eyes; and there glittered something within them—a broken shard of glass which pained the Lady to no small extent.

Arlene of the Medjai was not one to rise quickly to fear. But to fear she rose, as was the norm for protective mothers.

And as the Lady of the Medjai departed in a flurry of crimson skirts and flowing sleeves, Estarra Cyn Cyrix could not help but to marvel upon the guile of the Greater Powers. To see, but not to aid. To observe, and never to warn.

Twas' the life and trials of the Medjai seers.

* * *

The sun was strong in the sky when Cordelia arose. Her slumber had been long troubled, and she had found no respite in sleep from the echoing chasms of nothingness within the vastness of her being. And it was then that realisation came upon her, swift and quick as a shadow in a darkened alley.

There was a _weight_ upon her sheets, by the twists of blankets and pelts swathed about her bended legs; a head, deeply nested within arms clasped about one another.

The low, muted sobs of the woman coated the stillness of the air.

_Atma_.

The sorceress frowned—then leaned towards the elder woman, clasping a gentle hand over her heaving shoulder. "Atma?"

She shuddered—then lifted pale and lifeless eyes to the sorceress's. She seemed to have aged overnight; no longer was she _merely_ a widow.

Where once she was strong, Atma was _feeble_, now, in widowhood, bereft of even the luxury of hope for the future, vulnerable against the attacks of failures and doubts.

She released a great, broken sob.

And the sorceress _knew_.

* * *

Within the deeps of the desert earth lay catacombs; tombs and crypts, hidden away beneath centuries' worth of dust and golden sand. None sought these tombs, save, perhaps, grave-robbers, eager, as always, to earn their livings in plunder and pilfering. The entrances to these crypts lay in derelict ruins—broken sandstones, collapsed in piles of dusty rubble. Desert vines stretched taut across the heaps; but the entrances were clear to the watchful eye.

They were clearer, still, to the watchful eyes of airborne hawks.

Had it been hours since their untimely descent into the darkness of the desert crypts? Saul found he no longer knew the time of the day. And, as he drew his blade in a single, fluid motion across the chest of the dark-skinned entity that was his opponent, he found himself enveloped in swathes of irony.

Who, by the Gods, cared whether the sun shone, when in the midst of one such battle?

Beside him, the amazon wove through the horde of undead with deadly precision; she barely touched their oil-slicked limbs. Yet her purpose was clear mere moments later—she broke free of the crowd, and, drawing a single, slender arrow, loosed it without further thought.

She watched, her expression grim, as the crowd exploded in a myriad of crimson flames. The corpses fell upon the ground with sickening crunches; more than undead skulls had been crushed in the fall.

It all spoke volumes of her experience—of her skill and accuracy in the handling of such situations. She slew without remorse; and if she was sorry for the war they waged, she did not show it. The amazon's face was impassive beneath the layers of oil, and ash, and soot.

A sudden, throbbing pain within the length of his spine alerted the druid that his opponents were not as dead as he'd hoped. He released a low, pained grunt—then turned, ducking the secondary blow he knew was to come. The thin, winged creatures of the night surrounded him as a cloud of darkness; bats, large, with great, yellow fangs and leathery wings imbued with lightning-tipped claws.

He paused a moment, wrinkling his nose as he assessed his opponents—but not a second had passed before he was forced to duck, once more. His spine tingled uncomfortably beneath the folds of his clothes; he had little doubt that the pain would soon begin to intensify. For a moment or two, he thought to strike at the winged demons with his staff, then dismissed the idea as no more than a ridiculous fancy. There were simply too many of them.

The druid winced slightly, rubbing at the back of his neck—then twirled his staff about his hands in several swift motions, before bringing the base of the twisted wood onto the ground with a resounding thump. "Araeya, get out of the way!"

She'd barely had a second to hear his warnings; but her reflexes were as good as any. With an almost alarming burst of speed, she drew three arrows from her rapidly-decreasing quiver, then let them loose into the fray of skeletal mages. Mere seconds later, they were nothing more than crystal blocks of ice upon the ground. Satisfied, the amazon turned her attention towards the druid—then swore loudly, her brows furrowed as she twisted backwards into the edges of the corridor.

The pale-brown slabs of stone set within the ground began to crack; and moments later, fell away to reveal a rich, brown river of mud—it swirled for a moment within the deeps of its pit, and, as clay pots are formed, rose from the ground in the form of a low, wide-based mountain. Crimson-and-amber lava bubbled ferociously within the heart of the volcano; it was _spitting_ fire. The dry and ash-defiled steam gushed forth from the lava's surface, building a layer of stifling heat upon the slowly deteriorating air.

Saul growled, and it was thick and feral within his throat. His grip upon his staff tightened as, with a low, rumbling echo, the volcano _exploded—_exploded! in an eruption of red-hot spheres of flame and searing ribbons of burning lava.

The bursts of fire were warm against his skin—yet they flew in every visible direction from the mouth of the volcano, bursting into sparks of crimson-gold as they came into contact with the beasts of the crypt. The winged demons shrieked their distaste of the light and heat—yet all fell dead onto the ground, and, within moments, were swept away into the midsts of the volcano's fiery onslaught. The lava came in torrents; and all that were within its path of destruction were instantly engulfed in ash and soot—and death.

It would soon flood the entirety of the corridor.

He waved his staff once more, gritting his teeth as he conjured a large gust of chilly winds from the tip of his staff; then leapt onto the frozen, greyed magma square upon the sea of fiery waves, wincing as he felt it slide along—and in such a manner, surfed the scorching lava towards the amazon, who, despite the precariousness of her situation, stood devoid of fear. He reached out as he came by her, and had only just succeeded in pulling her onto his frozen island, before the burning liquid came crashing down upon the ground where she previously stood.

And then there was silence.

* * *

She walked as though in a daze; a dream. The ground was hard beneath the soles of her deer-skin boots, and the salty tang of the chilly sea fog clung upon her skin, tickling at her lungs and at the back of her throat. Her cloak fell in swathes and layers of ebon velvet about the back of her knees, richly hemmed with a brocade border of silver-and-gold vines. Her Medjai-mage robes, she'd left within her lacquered rosewood chest, won, so long ago, from the Countess of the Forgotten Tower; for they were too heavy, and too stifling for such weather as the realms of Aranoch had to offer. In the stead of the robes were the clothes of the desert locals; a sleeveless, belly-baring bodice of a rich, jade-coloured silk, worn beneath an emerald-encrusted collar of gold and silver, a pair of loose-fitting pantaloons in shades of jade and peacock-blue, and a slitted, wispy overskirt of ebon satin.

She found the clothes strangely lacking in ways—yet they were comfortable enough to trudge about in, in the blistering heat.

But clothes, at any rate, was the _last_ thing on her mind.

It was as though she were dreaming. She saw, out of the corners of her eyes, the people she passed; the sentiments they expressed, and the doubt they carried within the depths of their eyes. The streets were naught to her—she heard nothing, and took nothing into account. The crystal phials of swirling amethyst that hung from her belt tinkled against one another as she walked. Her staff hung limp within the palm of her hand.

And still, she walked.

"Cordelia!"

_Jerhyn_.

"Cordelia, where do you think you're going?"

_Hush, Jerhyn. I have no time, nor heart to discuss my motives with you._

"Cordelia, _wait!"_

_I'm sorry. I refuse to be merely a trophy bride._

"Cordelia!"

He ran to her, his turban flying askew as he reached out to grab at her arm. She twisted in the air—then turned, and, for the first time in a long time, faced him fully. His eyes were dark with worry, and his jaw was set. Perhaps he knew the contents of her heart at present.

"Let me go." Her voice was a low and quiet murmur.

He shook his head. "No. It's too dangerous!"

"Kei is in there. I _have_ to get him out."

He frowned.

_Dear God, was that all he had to express his grief? His grief for the life of Atma's son? A mere frown?! _

"Cordelia, it's still too dangerous. Perhaps the guards—"

"No. I _need _to go." She began, stiffly, cutting him off. "Don't do this, Jerhyn. Don't stop me."

"I'll come with you." There was determination in his tone. "Just give me a moment."

"We don't _have_ a moment." She said, gritting her teeth. "_Kei_ might not have a moment, Jerhyn!"

"I'll just be a minute." The prince was adamant in his claim. "Wait here."

She scowled. "Fine. One minute. Go."

He nodded; then turned, and disappeared into the crowd. The sorceress counted to three—and, with a somewhat disgruntled growl, and a flick of her staff about her hands, she turned on the spot, and reached her hands out for the infinite darkness that governed the realms of non-existence.

There was in _no_ way she would wait for him. Not while Kei was in such danger as that which precipitated death.

* * *

They were _surrounded_.

Encircled within a circle of hell-spawned demons.

Bordered within a loop of what was, surely, a sign of premature death.

They stood with their backs to one another, weapons drawn and stances beleaguered with anxiety amidst other emotions. _He_ held his staff within the palm of his hand, and the copper-hilted blade in the other. _She_ had her bowstring plucked taut, a single, ivory-fletched arrow notched against the be-jewelled rosewood arc. As one, as though they'd rehearsed, they tensed their fingers—and as one, they attacked.

The world spun in a myriad of flickering shades of reds and golds as Saul twisted and turned, dancing about the blades of his opponent's attacks. The demon stood to at least twice his height; yet its form was that of a frail, slender man—it wore the guise of perfectly-mummufied bones. Bands, chains, and bangles glittered at the neck and at the arms. Upon its head was a headpiece of azure stone and faded gold.

It wore no robes.

Saul winced, shaking his head in an attempt to free the sight and stench from within the depths of his mind. The lights flickered; and for a moment or two, the druid thought the darkness could prevail. But a second passed—and light overcame the chamber once more.

But that mere moment of hesitation, alone, had cost him much.

He cried out, biting into his lower lip as the curved scimitar came into contact with his lower abdomen. It was a smooth, clean cut—long and narrow, but, thankfully, lacking in depth. Saul found himself heaving a faint sigh of relief—it came out harsh and rough, almost similar to the hiss of a mountain-cat; then ducked the second charge, bringing his staff up to meet the unslaught. He tasted blood in his mouth, but the brevity of his situation demanded he ignore it.

The sound of steel upon steel rang within the air. "Aha." Saul smirked grimly. His aim was true—it was the metal clasps upon his staff that had hindered the progress of the mummy's blades.

The mummified corpse drew away—slackened for a second; and was instantly reduced to dust as the druid drove the blade of his dagger straight into the faintly beating heart within the cage of bones that stood as its chest.

Saul made a face, coughing the dust from his lungs as he wet his cracked and chapped lips with his tongue. He tasted salt—and with a pang of disgust, realised that which he'd just ingested. But the situation allowed no time for such pleasures as disgust. Yet another crept upon him, scimitar poised to strike; to kill. He groaned—then rolled aside, parrying the blow with his dagger, and driving the end of his staff between the hollowed eyes of the mummufied giant. It crumbled to the ground at his feet. Already, it had begun to wither away into dust and ash.

Across the room, the amazon was but a blur to him. She moved with an almost elegant flair. Her movements seemed, to the druid, at some points, to be uneccesary; yet her training had served her well. There was naught save a long, slender gash upon the length of her left arm; her face remained untainted, save for the ebon stains that were the work of scorching fires and drifting soot. Her supply of arrows had dwindled away into a pathetic number—Saul thought he counted at least seven within her quiver. Yet she drew her bowstring, again, and again, and again, bronze-tanned face screwed in an expression of extreme concentration.

And then he saw the _arrows_.

Arrows, but _not_ arrows.

Pallid, silvery bolts of pure, crackling energy. The amazon plucked her bowstring back—and between the parting of her middle and ring finger, the air expanded; more, and more, and more, until it claimed the length and size of a true, Amazonian arrow.

She caught the druid's eye. "Keep your eyes on _your_ enemy, Scosglen Wolf." She smirked humourlessly—then let loose the arrow. It found its home within the chest of a winged fiend; and, even as it exploded within the air in a throbbing spasm of dim, silvery light, brought the fiend down with a dull, leathery thud. "I am no prettier than your crimson-headed princess, and less than inclined to share your bed."

The druid scowled in response, but chose to hold his tongue. Instead, he whipped around on his heels, releasing a low grunt as he struck, hard, against the skull of a straying demon-kin; a skeletal warrior, armed with sword and steel. Yet, it was but a mere pile of broken bone and ashes that sank onto the ground before him, staining the ebon of his boots with pale grey dust.

Again, and again, and again he struck, alternating between staff, dagger, and, at various moments, the magic bound within his veins. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could only just make out the shape of the amazon—the graceful arch of her slender frame as she drew and released, drew and released, causing flickers of light to appear, and, just as quickly, disappear from within the heart of her enchanted arrows.

A shriek of terror; a cry of pain.

And then—silence. Absolute, sheer silence.

He froze. He turned, as he, in a single, sweeping motion, swept the hair from his eyes. "Araeya." He murmured.

The amazon waved a languid hand, though the motion lacked its previous energy—Saul noted, grimly, as he watched her, the strain of her movement etched upon her pallid face. The various small cuts and bruises upon her body were negligable—but that which worried the druid most was the demeanor in which she now held herself.

She was silent. Before, she had been nothing short of an asp with poisoned tongue.

Yet she stood, docile, at present. Naught crossed her lips, save the faintest of grunts—perhaps _she_, too, was in pain, as he was.

It seemed forever before the amazon spoke. She lifted her hand, wincing slightly, gesturing vaguely towards the center of the chamber. "What's that?"

Saul frowned. "What's what?"

"That." She murmured, eyes half-lidded as she elbowed past him. "It's… alive, somehow."

He narrowed his eyes as he came up to her. "It's a chest. Nothing more."

"It's alive. Can't you _feel_ it? Can't you feel the humming?" She persisted, her brows furrowing even as she placed callused hands upon the gilded lid of the chest. "I'm telling you, this—this is alive."

Saul sighed, shaking his head as he knelt. "I think it's what's _inside_ the chest that's alive, at any rate."

"Perhaps." She smirked, rolling her shoulders back into a rather lethargic shrug—then slowly, calmly, brought the lid to a rise. "Aha. I was right."

He watched in silence as she reached with both hands into the darkness of the chest. Several short moments passed; her expression betrayed little, save slight amazement. Then, she drew back, and he saw the _cube_ within the palms of her hands. "What—" He started. "—is that?"

The amazon rolled her shoulders back, shrugging slightly. "If _you_ don't know, I don't see how you should expect _me_ to know." She held it out—then slid it gently into his open hands. "It's heavier than it looks."

Saul frowned quietly even as he lifted the cube to eye level. Up close, he saw that the sides of the cube were carefully constructed of hundreds of russet-stained squares of ivory. The edges were gilded; bronze, and gold, held together with minute silver clasps. The tips of his fingers were cold upon the smooth onyx stones encrusted within the squares—he drew them away, then blinked.

Within the heart of the glimmering metals, he _thought_ he felt a _pulse_.

His change of expression did not go unnoticed by the amazon. She smirked. "I told you so."

He scowled. "It doesn't mean you know any more than me what this could be."

"There's only one person who'd know, I'm afraid." Her smile was forced—it did not reach her eyes.

The druid arched a brow—then groaned. "Oh, dear God. You can't mean—"

She cut him off, and there was determination within the vestiges of her voice. "We must speak to Deckard Cain."

_Perfect._

He threw his palm over his eyes—then swore.

_Absolutely perfect._

* * *

**Author's Note:** And there goes another chapter! And, this didn't take as long as the previous chapter did, too! Be happy! Be glad!

…and, sorry if it sucks. I just haven't had much time lately. I'm officially in uni now! Mass communications and all.

…and I actually have my Sociology class in an hour, and I need to read something for it. So I need to be quick.

Much thanks to **Ophelion**! You ROCK, (literally, haha! XD) and this chapter would not have been released quite so quickly if you hadn't guilted me into it with your fluff-a-plenty last one. So, thanks!

Next up, **skopde**: I'm sorry you were having a bad time. I hope things are better now! Thanks for staying with me, mmkay?

Thanks also to **Luna**. Your review made me happy. Very, very happy. It was so full of constructive thoughts, that I couldn't help but to feel happy!

Thanks to **Fallen Dragonfly**: I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Thanks also to **FantasyFreak4Life**.

And welcome to **Synapse** and **dragonst**! Thanks so much for your reviews, and I sincerely hope you stick with my fic as Saul and Cordy journey through the realms together!

Thanks also to **ArmchairANBU** for the story alerts!

Augh, I need to read my notes for class now! NOW. So, look out for my next chapter, entitled, **"Beneath the Jewel"**, and until then, cheers!


	26. Chapter 25: Beneath the Jewel

* * *

**Chapter 25: Beneath the Jewel**

* * *

From the surface of the Jewel City, one could not begin to perceive the devilry of the darkness which lay just beneath the cobbled streets. The golden gleam of the city; the general splendour brought to home the mirage of a thriving land. Yet, that was all the surface remained—a mirage to fool the minds of those who would choose to believe themselves safe.

It was more—_much_ more than mere darkness which inhabited the sewers of the Golden Jewel.

Cordelia grit her teeth as she made her way past moss-covered walls oozing emerald slime and brownish feces. There was no light, save for the mildly-flickering handful of crimson-blue flames she held within the palm of her hand. From the rounded curves of the low, grey-bricked walls came softened whispers—the music of falling droplets amidst an ethereal echoing. The sewers reeked, as was expected; yet the stench was not merely that of bodily excrements and stale water.

The sewers were riddled with the stench of _death_.

Gingerly, she side-stepped a puddle of bubbling enuresis—or was it blood?—then paused.

The corridor split.

For a moment or two, the sorceress merely stood her ground, flexing the fingers of her fire-free hand. Choices, in _her_ life, were hard to come by—yet _this_ choice in particular was one she had no desire to make.

_Left or right?_

She took a deep breath, then winced in disgust as the bitter tang of the sewers' air hit the insides of her lungs. Biting back the slowly rising bile, she craned her neck slightly, peering first into one darkened side, and then, towards the other. There was naught different regarding the two. No light, no enemy.

No clue as to where Kei could be.

Cordelia nibbled gently upon her lower lip—then lifted her handful of flames, illuminating her surroundings with perhaps just a little more light. Then, fingers crossed, she turned, and, without a backwards' glance, edged away into the beckoning shadows.

* * *

"You look for Deckard Cain. I need the mens' room."

"_You_ look for Deckard Cain. _I_ need the ladies' room."

"I spoke first!"

"Well, it's a rule of thumb that ladies come first, regardless of _who_ speaks first."

"That's no fair at all! You're twice as rude as _any_ man, so why can't you be considered one of us?!"

The amazon blinked once—then tossed platinum-streaked locks from her forehead with a rather well-practiced smirk. "Because I lack your genitals. At any rate, that was _very_ smart of you, Scosglen Wolf. Perhaps if you insult me enough, I'll grant you mercy and talk to Deckard Cain myself."

"I was _hoping_ for that, yes." Despite himself, Saul found himself returning her smirk—he was perfectly content to ignore the finer points of her retort. "I very much doubt your kindness, though."

"Brilliant. Now that we are quite agreed, let's get this over and done with." She tapped a leather-clad foot impatiently upon the ground. "Come on."

He sighed—then thought to make a final attempt. "Are you _quite_ sure you need me there?"

"Why are you so intent on _not_ talking to him? Does he annoy you _that_ much?" Once more she halted, amazonian skin stretched taut across her forehead as she arched a slender brow. "Why are you hiding?"

"I'm _not_ hiding." Saul grunted distastefully. "Its just—I haven't spoken to him since—" He paused, wrinkling his nose slightly. Part of him wished the amazon would understand the reasons behind his reluctance—but even if she did, he grumbled inwardly, he severely doubted her ability to stay out of his business.

He was not disappointed.

She at least had the courtesey to blink, her expression a mask of _almost_ lady-like cluelessness, before speaking. "Why haven't you spoken to him? Are you avoiding him?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Then why?" Araeya had him cornered, now. So willful, the amazon, and so unwilling to consider one's desires for privacy.

He scowled. "I just haven't had the opportunity to talk to him since I got here. In case you haven't noticed, I've been a little busy chasing demons with _you_."

She fell silent just then, blue-green eyes alit with curiousity and, strangely, something akin to empathy as she studied him. Finally, she spoke, but her tone quite lacked its usual sting. "Did he know the Medjai princess well?"

"Cordelia? Well… they didn't interact much before we journeyed into Aranoch together. And even then, their interactions were at a bare minimum." Saul crinkled his nose slightly, reaching up to rub at the back of his hand. Ebon locks rumpled messily.

Araeya nodded slowly, as though deep in thought. "I suppose _your_ interactions with him, too, were limited. Though I can see very well why you wouldn't want to speak with him." She smirked—then held up a hand to silence him. "He is observant to the point that makes him an annoyance in the eyes of others. I can't say that must be easy for him, but that does not mean I condone his often-infuriating methods of interfering with others' problems. In fact, he annoys even _me_." Here, she paused, scratching idly at the tip of her nose. "I know, and you know, that _he_ knows how you and Cordelia feel for one another. You're hiding because you don't want to face that—to face him and his interfering words."

"Can't it be that I'm just too bitter and resentful to talk to him? He's annoying, even _without_ his interfering." Saul countered, dryly. He was careful to keep his gaze level with that of the amazon's—he knew she'd think his words false, otherwise.

"I suppose." Araeya arched her shoulders back, wrinkling her nose in an attempt to stem the yawn stretching her jaws—but to no avail. "But if _that_ is true, you should have no problems talking to him, hmm?" She leaned forward, curling her lips in what the druid knew to be an overly-sweet, triumphant smile.

He scowled. "At this moment in time, Araeya, I really don't like you."

The amazon snickered quietly, platinum locks falling limp into her eyes as she rocked back and forth on her heels. "I'm sure you'll live to recant those words."

The city square was, as was the norm, crowded. Saul found himself falling back a pace or two, lingering slowly behind the amazon—where Cordelia's steps were short and swift, Araeya had

the grace of long and lithe limbs which loaned her the luxury of well-paced steps. The comparison made him smile; the former and the latter were so very different.

At length, the amazon halted her steps—then turned to face him, brow wrinkled.

"Why—" She muttered, leaning aside. "—is the air thicker than usual in here?"

He blinked, ebon brows knitting together in mild distaste. She wasn't lying. The locals, as they often were within the city square, sat within groups and circles of their own. Yet, gone was the colourful exuberence with which they usually equipped themselves. They said little enough to one another—but Saul caught the hopeful whispers; the stolen glances. Araeya, too, was not oblivious to their sentiments. She ran a hand casually across her forehead, wiping sweat from her brow. The frown had all but disappeared—but her eyes were riddled with fatigue and wariness.

"…d'you think, maybe, someone _else_ has died?" Saul leaned towards the amazon, lifting a hand to shield the movement of his lips. His voice was but a mutter.

Araeya, thankfully, was equally prudent with her words. She feigned a cough, leaning forwards just a touch as she hissed in response. "I wouldn't know, but I have a bad feeling of this. These people are too grim-faced—too sullen. I feel as if I can't breathe, what with their eyes trailing along the slope of my back."

Saul rolled his eyes. "You speak of them as if they were one being—a man intent upon your bedding."

She laughed. "They are intent upon many things, Saul, and while I don't doubt _my_ general appeal to your gender—" Blue green orbs twinkled in vague amusement as she shook her head back, displaying ivory teeth as she grinned. "—I am quite certain they have better things to think of at present."

"You do delight in making me uncomfortable, don't you?" The druid muttered, dryly—but she merely smirked in response. He'd barely opened his mouth to speak again, however, before a flash of firestorm hair caught his eye—but it was not Cordelia.

Fara.

Nomally, the smith held herself with a quiet grace that stretched to the very ends of her agile limbs. Yet there was none of that within her at present. Her jaw was set taut within her face, and her lips were thin—with anxiety, Saul thought. Hazel eyes wavered slightly in colour. Crimson hair fell about her shoulders in a mass of tangled curls—she obviously held little care for appearances at times such as these.

She reached towards the druid, gripping his arms with calloused hands. "Kei has entered the sewers in persue of his father's murderers."

The druid drew in a deep breath—then swore. "When?"

"This morning." Fara's voice was hoarse with unspoken fear. Her fingers tightened painfully upon the druid's forearms. "Saul, Cordelia went in after him." She swallowed, then lifted her eyes to meet his. "_Alone_."

The world went silent; but the silence was near defeaning. Saul thought he could feel the eyes upon him—eyes full of curiousity and hope.

Eyes of empathy.

He looked to Fara—she released her hold of his arms, stepping back. In similar fashion, those within the square turned their glances away. One after the other, the dark, desert-kissed faces dispersed into the streets; to a corner, a short, squat old man muttered quietly under his breath, shaking his head. Saul thought he saw Deckard Cain shift upon a wooden stool, thought he could hear Warriv's whispered exclaimation.

He turned—then caught Araeya's eye.

The amazon's arms were crossed over her abdomen. She wrinkled her nose; and in a low, muted grunt—"Well _that_ can't be good."

* * *

She was certain that death had come, at last, to claim her defiant soul. She'd been certain of the fact ten minutes ago.

The minutes had stretched through the hours long passed—she'd lost count; yet her certainty had not disappeared. She faced death at the turn of every dark corner, but fought her way through with determination to rival her father's.

And it had been said by many that Oberon of the Medjai was a man of great stubbornness.

She smiled grimly at the thought. At her feet, the charred remains of what had once been a child of Hell befouled soft deerskin boots, knobbly, broken fingers clawing lifelessly upon the skin of her legs—and in the wake of knife-edged nails flowed a slender river of warm, crimson blood.

Stung, the sorceress cried out in pain—and, without quite meaning to, slammed the foot of her staff into the back of the hellish skull. There was a loud crack; clawed fingers fell away from sun-browned flesh, and the broken bone crumbled away into dust and ebon ash.

She swallowed, shutting her eyes as she grasped at her left arm—her right one shook with shock and pain—then dug her nails deep into flesh, biting down a cry of surprised pain. The pain in her leg subsided somewhat; it was her arm which throbbed at present. Her breath came in rapid and erratic gasps.

Had she survived thus far with such stamina?

She shook her head, fingers scrabbling along the cracks of the walls as a wave of dizziness engulfed her being. The world spun around her feet.

_Too much fire. Too much magic._

She felt her abdomen tense in protest as she fell to her knees. Teeth gnashed together to prevent the hiss from escaping her lips.

_Too much magic._

The rough stone surface was cold beneath the touch of her skin—then slick with the wetness of her blood. She swallowed several times, clenching and unclenching her fingers. Minutes; or was it _hours_? –passed before she found strength within the muscles of her body once more.

_Up you go._

She bit her lip, drawing blood as she got to her feet. For a moment or two, the world resumed its deafening cacophonia of spinning—and then passed.

Cordelia exhalled quietly under her breath, ignoring stabbing pains. Then, clasping her staff within the palm of her hand, she braved a step—and another, and another.

_Perhaps_, she mused, her lower lip curling ever so slightly, _perhaps the next level would bring about the end of the pain_.

Just perhaps.

* * *

He stumbled along into the darkness of the sewers, as though he were a blind man. Fingers stroked the edges of brick walls, hard and slick to the very touch. The hem of his cloak rustled at his feet, and well-oiled boots of ebon leather muffled his footsteps upon the slippery ground.

At present, he was only just mildly aware of the various emotions throbbing within the deeps of his skull. Anxiety and trepidation were at the foremost—concern for the sorceress he had come to regard as more—_so much more_ than a friend.

The images flooded his mind in a torrent of waves. Cordelia, wounded and in pain, clinging on to the very last vestiges of her life. Cordelia in battle, fighting for her survival, but tiring quickly. In his mind, he saw her falter in her steps—then crumble, limp, onto the ground as staves and daggers were driven in wild abandon through her slender form, breaking through flesh and bone.

And then, Cordelia, _dead_.

He found he could not _bear_ the thought.

Gritting his teeth, Saul canted his head ever so slightly—then turned to face the man who followed in his wake. "You really should not have come. These conditions aren't precisely suited for one of your station."

Jerhyn scowled. Deep brown eyes glinted beneath dark, straying tresses—he'd abandoned his turban in favor of a platinum, gem-encrusted circlet. Long, ebon hair was slicked away from his face, knotted together at the nape of his neck in a waist-length ponytail. He wore a finely-woven tunic of ringmail above an undershirt of crimson silk; a sword hung from his waist. "Far be it from me to leave a woman in harm's way—and it is Cordelia. I would sooner die than to allow any damage to befall her."

"Because you love her _this_ much." Saul muttered dryly. Tension knotted in the back of his shoulders.

"It just so happens—" The prince retorted, his voice a bland, monotonous cadence, "—that she is _my_ bethrothed. It is only right that her well-being concerns me, rather than some half-feral riff-raff from the woodlands." He smirked, stretching broad shoulders back ever so slightly.

Saul growled—then gnashed his teeth together, eyes narrowing even as he clenched his fists and _reached_ deep into the heart of the earth. The toes upon his feet were _roots_; binding him, _mind_, _body_, and _soul_ with the earth magic. And then, bone became liquid, shifting in size, shape, and place. Knotted muscles and taut-stretched skin melted away to form pale grey fur and slick black muzzle. The fluffy, ebon-tipped tail fell between lithe, wolfish legs—muscles tensed as he arched his back.

He was a _wolf_.

Soft, leathery paws padded gently upon the ground even as he turned towards the Prince, baring ivory teeth in a deep, husky growl. Defiance rippled through the tips of his ears.

_So what if I'm some half-feral riff-raff from the woodlands? At least I don't cower in fear at the mere sight of a wolf._

He was pleasantly surprised to see the startled Prince back a step away. If wolves bore expressions, he had little doubt that his would, at present, betray the smugness within his being. Out of the corner of his eye, Saul thought he saw the Prince flinch—but moments later discovered traces of impropriety in his silent celebrations.

Crimson eyes, narrowly slitted, blinked languidly in the darkness behind the prince. Yellowed fangs were bared beneath the curve of dry and broken lips. The scent of death and decay tickled at the wolfish nose—one so inclined as to catch the stench of evil long before human senses were moved to work.

He hesitated a moment—then pounced.

"By the Gods—" Jerhyn swore loudly as he jumped aside. Saul thought he saw chocolate-brown eyes flashed angrily; then widened as they fell upon the sight of flaying swords and tauted bowstrings clasped in flaming, skeletal hands. The ring of metal upon wood chimed within the darkened sewer corridors, the glint of steel flashing from corner to corner even as the Prince drew his longsword, and leapt to attack.

Saul growled quietly; he felt silver-tipped whiskers upon his muzzle bristle with disgust—then shifted, leaning forward into the face of his prey. Clammy, wrinkled flesh enshrouded over-long limbs, the bones protruding from shoulder to elbow. In the stead of fingers were slender, serrated daggers; and they were poised to strike. The druid was only faintly aware of the stench of sweat and blood as he lunged forward, jaws split to reveal razor-sharp teeth—seconds later, the skin upon the throat was torn away, revealing a thinner membrane of pulsating flesh.

A glint of steel; the harsh whisper of blade against furry thigh.

He yelped in pain—then ripped the throat bare. He tasted blood, but thought it necessary to ignore the slowly-rising bile within the back of his throat.

Turning where he stood, Saul grit his teeth—and found himself human once more. He spat, disgusted, onto the ground, but had little more than a second in which to compose himself. The Prince of Lut Gholein stood his ground well enough, but swords were no match for skeletal archers.

He allowed himself the faintest of smirks before lifting both arms; he could feel the sudden surges of energy through his very veins—and half a moment later, straightened as the grey-stone floors set within the ground corroded away to reveal a flaming river of magma.

"Move, princeling!" Hot dust and soot tickled at his throat as he called out towards the Prince. "Unless you fancy yourself crisped!"

"I'd fancy something _else_ crisped." Jerhyn spat, dark brows narrowing as he leapt to safety.

Saul crooked a wry smile—and in the sheer, heated silence in which boiling lava engulfed demonic entities whole, found himself bostered, that in battle, at the very least, he was _that_ much better than the Prince of Lut Gholein.

* * *

She wept.

Having done that, she swore at the shadows. Cursed the Devils of Darkness deep within the chasms of Hell.

On her knees, she bent over. Trembling fingers dug into the sides of her cheeks, where nails were _sure_ to leave marks.

Yet at _present_, physical pain, to her, seemed nothing short of relief from that which was _reality_.

She lifted her head. Her eyes were clouded with the mist of tears—her vision, impaired. But she _saw_—and it was _clear_.

It was Arhaid's head that stood impaled upon a stake. Eye-sockets, once home to gems of deepest green, lay empty and hollow. Whatever remained of his hair was soiled and matted to the top of his head; awash with the stench of matted blood and stale sweat.

She looked for his chest—arms—legs—and discovered there were _none_. No fingers, nor toes, nor any other remnants of that which might have belonged to the husband of the woman she called friend. No remains to be returned to those who would give him a warrior's farewell—a husband's farewell.

A father's farewell.

How long she wept, she did not know. When, at last, the world ceased to spin, she chanced another glance towards the gore-driven chaos—and felt her throat constrict.

"I'm sorry, Arhaid. I can't bring you back—not now." She whispered. "Atma cannot see you—not like this."

Crimson flames sparked within the palm of her hand. A single, saltine tear coursed along the length of her ashen cheek.

"Rest in peace, Arhaid Faranghi of Lut Gholein. Beloved husband to Atma Harum of the Medjai—" She swallowed, bowing her head. Within the darkness of the catacombs, her voice seemed to stretch on in echoes of forever; yet they were but whispers. "Beloved father to Keijha Faranghi." Slender fingers traced miniature walls of fire upon the ground, licking upon the edges of the stake and bringing it to life with the crackling heat of crimson-blue flames. "Beloved father to Miavanna Faranghi—"

Several short moments passed in which she was merely content to sit and watch. Wooden stake burned away in a show of deep-grey smog. What remained of Arhaid became dust and ash—and was returned to the earth.

She swallowed her fear, and stomached her grief. It, too, would come to pass in time.

The _pain_, too, would pass.

_It had to._

* * *

Hours—_or was it days_—later, she was stumbling away. Falling through the shadows, only to have her feet touch the ground once more. She was exhausted—yet she would not concede to darkness. The memory of sunlight seemed but millions of centuries away; the walls were closing in upon her. She had little idea as to her own co-ordinates; mere luck had brought her thus far.

She teethered upon the edge of hysteria—and she knew it well.

The scream—a childish, fearful one, brought her to her senses. She ran, now, her footsteps heavy upon the slick stone floor; but she did not slip, nor trip.

And then, she saw him. Bound, and gagged beneath the feet of one who stood at least thrice her height. Surrounded by hordes of bony, hell-spawned demons. His eyes were largened in fear, and every inch of his child-like frame quavered uncontrollably.

And even as _the tall one_ raised his dagger to strike, she lunged forwards, praying that she would make it.

"KEI!"

* * *

**Author's Note:** Holy mackaroon. This chapter sure as hell took a long time. I'm sorry, you guys! Uni has been so very busy for me! But I want y'all to know that no matter how long I take to upload, that I won't ever stop writing this until the very end, mmkay? So stay with me!

Thanks, always, to **Ophelion**, who's stuck with me through… well, everything. Especially when it comes to my lack of motivation for writing.

Thanks also to **Luna** and **skopde**, who are as loyal to this fic as loyal can be. Thank you guys so much!

Triple thanks to **Glacio Iceblade**, **Fallen Dragonfly** and **Twilight Bunny** for the kind reviews! And thanks also, to **Another Stranger Me** for the fav!

Lots of love to all of you, and hang onto your seats for the next chapter, which is entitled, **"The Elder Mummy"**! Until then, ciao, and please don't forget to make me happy by reviewing! Bye!


	27. Chapter 26: The Elder Mummy

* * *

**Chapter 26: The Elder Mummy**

**

* * *

  
**

He watched her.

Chocolate-brown eyes teemed with tears as they darted to and fro in accordance with her movements, glistening with the faintest peals of pale-gold light. He struggled, he resisted—but the ropes held him firm.

He was scared—she could see it in his eyes; in his face, and in the limpness of his young and boyish frame.

She grit her teeth, muscles tensing. Her right hand swathed itself in crimson-gold flames as she lifted it, knuckles paling in response to the tightening of her fist. She paused—then let loose the fire, a prayer within her throat.

Her aim was true.

He was called _Radamant_—of that much she was sure. The name, in its own, was born of pure evil.

_Radamant_.

In Kai'duvah, the demon-tongue—_Rada_; _Bloodlust_, and _Mahnti_.

_Guardian_.

_The Guardian Father of Blood-lust._

She was only barely aware of Kei's crawled retreat as the Guardian arched his back, rearing on slender, bony limbs. A low, ominous rumble echoed about the catacombs in perfect synchrony with the trembling of the ground; the very foundations of the blood-slicked ceiling were threatened. Her fingers tightened about the polished wooden staff of deep-brown rosewood; she counted to five, biting lip and harnessing resolve as she did so.

The stage was set; the boy was out of harm's way. In his darkened corner, the Guardian roared his anger.

She exhaled heavily, shaking fear from her head. Within the palm of her hand, she could feel the tingling warmth of newborn flames; they licked about the sides of her fingers, curling about her forearm and elbow. And then she darted forward, footsteps light upon the ground.

Easily, he avoided the swooping motion of her staff as she came forward. Even as bony, pale-grey fingers intercepted the path of fire towards his face, he lifted a leg; and with unmatched dexterity caught the staff in the heel of his foot. In the dimness of the candle-lit hall, Cordelia thought she saw the glimmer of golden anklets; but gasped, swearing, as he leaned forwards, crushing the staff into the ground with his weight, and bringing her with it.

She rolled aside beneath the portico of his legs, grunting as she came to surface behind him. The staff would not budge—he was too heavy.

Gritting her teeth, she drew her dagger, and, cursing the fates, drove it deep into the crevice that was the Guardian's back. He screamed, flailing fleshless arms as he turned to round upon her. She was weightless as he flung her against the slick, cold wall, his shrill, jubilant tones reverberating within the halls amidst her cries of pain and terror. The tremors rippled through her body, coursing along the length of her spine as he lifted a greying, liver-spotted limb—his hand. She gasped; but could find no time in which to catch her breath before the bony digits wrapped themselves about the flesh of her neck. The ground came away as the world began to spin; yet all she found she could do was to wriggle, as a fish out of water would.

He chuckled, leaning close, as though to study the lines upon her creased brow. Cordelia gasped—then choked at the discovery of the stench of sulpher and smoke. Up close, she saw that the Guardian's eyes were black; pure, midnight ebon, with naught but anguished hatred within. She gasped again, fighting for breath as her fingers sought to pry his away in futile attempts. Again, and again, she scratched at him, until she was sure that her nails were caked in blood and skin—yet the Guardian did not yield.

"Cordelia!"

It was Kei who awoke her sleeping senses; his voice which tore through her awareness. Cordelia found herself rasping, but the words within her throat would not form themselves. She squeezed her eyes shut, bloodless fingers trembling with the effort—and half a moment later, cried out once more, the air rushing through her lungs in earth-shattering release as a bright yellow bolt of lightning exploded in the air.

She fell, and fell, flinging wisps of crimson from her face.

All too late, she saw the sword upon the ground—swathed in blood, and rusted with age, it stood; upright, protruding the rotting corpse of what had once been a guard of Lut Gholein.

Yet _still_, she fell.

Her scream was caught in her throat as the sword found its sheath in her abdomen.

For several short moments, she lay prostrate, her cheek upon the half-decayed chest of the man who rested beneath her. The bones that were pressed taut against her skin were defiled with ebon soot—yet bits of sinew and broken muscle clung, still, to them. She tried to speak, but the words would not come; pain had overtaken every last corner within the vestiges of her conscious mind. A cold, chilling draft tickled her back; the sword had driven clean through muscle and skin.

"CORDELIA!"

The screams were but echoes within her head. Her vision dimmed as the halls darkened.

_Kei_.

_Dear Gods, Kei._

She heaved a dry sob—but it hurt her to breathe. It hurt to _live_.

Another scream; a child's cry, mingled amidst the inhuman screeches of bestial rage and pain. And then, collapsing heavily onto her, an unseen body; icy-cold to the very touch against the skin of her back. The sword within her shifted a little, but she was numb to the pain as her head jerked, involuntarily, forwards, expelling blood and bile from within the back of her throat and lungs.

"Cordelia—oh, dear Gods, the abomination is on _top_ of her…"

A man, with a voice honey-smooth, accented with the faintest tinges of Lut Gholein aristocracy.

And yet, even as she strove to open her eyes, Cordelia found that it was _not_, in fact, the Prince of Lut Gholein before her.

"Cor—shh." The deep grey eyes that were fixed upon her were fearful; she had not seen _that_ look in quite a while. His tone was low; whispered, as though he did not wish to disturb her. "It's going to be okay. You're all right—you're okay."

"Sau—" The name lingered, for the briefest of moments, upon the tip of her tongue; but it, too, was lost, as the world about her ceased to exist.

* * *

"—through her stomach, she's lucky to have _survived_ thus far."

"I don't care about the details, Fara, I just want to know—"

"—we _can't_ know for sure, Jerhyn. Not until she awakens, it's impossible to gauge—"

"Will she _live_? It's a simple question that anyone should be able to answer."

"With all due respect, _My Lord_—if it is so simple a question, perhaps you may answer it for yourself. Now, if that is all, I have another to attend to."

Within the never-ending night that was the darkness of her mind, Cordelia sought _clarity_. Pain, and disorientation ravaged what remained of her consciousness, hewing and slashing at the threads of her memory, until all connection between thought and recollection was severed. Sounds were amplified to tens above their true volume; and each murmur, each whispered word weighed upon her head as brick upon sand.

She swam through the darkness, as though she were liquid ice, eluding the threads of memory that swirled about her legs and arms. They tickled at the soles of her feet, circling the stubs of her toes in tentative, gentle touches.

The gentleness was not to last.

Without warning, the tendrils tightened their hold of her, pulling, pulling, and pulling her back. She thrashed, she flailed; but to no avail. In one fell swoop, the threads of memory—of reality engulfed her whole, swallowing her within its painful depths.

She gasped; then hissed as sunlight flooded her line of vision. For a moment or two, she merely lay still, wincing in complete rhythm with the pulsating of her abdomen. Her breath came in quick, short rasps; but the pain within her abdomen was dulled, now.

Only then did she come to realise that she, indeed, was very much alive.

It was several long minutes before she attempted, once more, to brave the brightness of the sun. One hand brushed gently against the tingling skin of her abdomen as she breathed in, and then out, and then in again in an attempt at calming her subconscious body. Slender fingers traced the swollen and crinkly flesh of what had once been smooth and supple silk. She blinked the tears from her eyes—then hissed once more as the world came into clearer focus; it hurt her head.

The softened rustle of robes alerted her of a different presence. Instinctively, she reached out, fingers trembling.

_He's here. He's __**always**__ here—always, by my side. He wouldn't leave me. Not now._

_Not like this._

"Saul…?"

There came no response.

She inhaled, biting her lip as the lump within her throat threatened to overcome her very being.

_He's here. He __**has**__ to be._

"Saul." Louder, she murmured, hating the quavering hiss that had become her voice—then grunted quietly as she shifted, hands moving in an attempt to push herself upright. She was impatient now; but she found she could not rise without aid. "A little—help—please?"

_He_ came, rustling silvery silks and deep-blue velvets as he took her by the waist and drew her upright, cradling her as though she were a child. Dark, chocolate-brown eyes narrowed in obvious anxiety; but she thought she saw traces of sadness within them.

They were, after all, _Jerhyn's_ eyes.

"You're awake." His voice was low, even wretched—but she found she could not focus, despite the guilt now flooding the very depths of her stomach.

"…yes." She murmured. And then, having found nothing else to say—"…how is Kei?"

He bowed his head, the prince, as his fingers found her hands to squeeze gently upon them. "He lives. But…" Here, he paused, then shook his head, offering the weakest of smiles. "…perhaps it is best that you discover it for yourself, and at a later date. Fara will not clear you for movement; of _that_ much I am certain."

"Is Atma—" Cordelia whispered, wincing slightly; her shoulders were shaking. "—is she…?"

"She knows." The response was brief. It did not make her feel any better. "She's concerned for you, too, Cordelia. You should rest. It does not do to exert yourself while your body requires respite."

She bit her lip. There were questions to be asked, and answers to be received—but that which she wished most to discover, she found she could _not_ ask. Instead, she curled an arm across her abdomen, eyes narrowed in slight discomfort as she gazed once more towards the prince. "…the sword pierced me here."

Jerhyn nodded in silence as his lips thinned. "Yes."

"The… scar." She said it deliberately; slowly, yet distinctly. It struck, resonant, within her head, and echoed in the quietude of her physical surroundings; and for some reason, it calmed her somewhat to hear it spoken aloud.

He avoided her eyes, as though he could not bear to watch her; but she did not crumble, nor did she harbour any desire to cry. In the stead of bitterness, she found a quiet _acceptance_. "Your injuries were far too extensive. She could not prevent the scarring—if she'd had worked a little slower, you would have…"

"Died." The word came easily to her, but at present, it did not quite scare her as it would a regular being—yet Jerhyn, obviously, was averse to it. He flinched, and she felt his fingers tighten painfully about hers, as though he were scared. For several moments, she merely watched his hands, unmoving and silent, then sighed, shaking her head gently. "I am healthy, Jerhyn, and very much alive. You needn't fear."

The prince of Lut Gholein made a sound somewhere between a dry, humourless laugh, and a grunt. "I couldn't protect you—and for that, I am sorry. Please…" His deep-brown orbs were wet as he placed gentle fingers beneath her chin, lifting her head to look her in the eye. "…forgive me."

She could find no words. Instead, she offered a faint smile—then rubbed gingerly at the hand about her shoulders for a moment or two, before dropping her glance. She knew her words and actions to be pretentious; she was sure _he_ knew it. There was, however, no helping of it—there could be no change of heart.

And, as he drew her closer, running a tender hand through her hair as he held her head against his shoulder, she allowed her eyes to fall shut, wishing, that with the soon-to-come setting of the sun, that she would then be left to her tears, unshed.

* * *

By twilight, the news had spread.

Man, woman and child—all who lived within the city had heard.

The demon; the Guardian of darkness had been defeated. Their prince's betrothed lay in recuperation within the royal palace.

And Atma—poor, widowed Atma, was now mother to a witless boy.

For the first time in a long time, the door to Atma's tavern remained bolted past the hour of the sun's setting. The windows were kept shut, and the lanterns upon their sills were lifeless; unlit. All who crossed her street did so in silence; to speak was to dishonor her loss.

The heavens knew she had lost enough.

They sat upon a table within the heart of the tavern, surrounded by shadows cast upon the diminutive light of a single, flickering lamp. The silence hung thick; it had been so for many an hour, but they, neither of them, thought to speak.

Truth be told, the druid found the entire situation rather surreal. It seemed a web of falsehoods and gloom, designed with malicious intent to draw the nightmares from his mind. He had neglected to wash; his clothes and hands were stained with blood.

Cordelia's blood.

He flinched, gritting his teeth as the images threatened to cross their threshold into the corners of his conscious mind. She lived; he knew that much. Fara had, earlier, stopped by the tavern to supply the news—and he was grateful for it. Yet, even as he'd gotten to his feet to go to her, he'd found himself hesitant.

Surely, _Jerhyn_ would be by her side.

Across the table from him, Araeya shifted slightly. Her eyes were slanted in obvious concern, amidst traces of something like _fear_ as she watched him—he had not seen her so before. Likewise, in similar fashion, Deckard Cain, too, sat in silence, his shoulders slumped as he leaned forwards upon wrinkled elbows.

The silence was well-founded—yet now that it had been established, it proved difficult to dispel.

It was Araeya who spoke, first. Her jaw was tense as she leaned forward, shoulders squared against the chill of the night. "You should wash."

Saul, who discovered no strength in his legs, merely shrugged. "Later."

"You should at least rest." Cain supplied quietly. The lines beneath his eyes were deeper that night, as were those upon his aging, creased forehead.

"I'm not tired." The druid countered. He knew his tone to be riddled with impatience—but he could not much help it at present.

Araeya frowned—then, without warning, straightened, running a hand quickly through her hair to sweep the pale-gold curtain from her face. Her tone was surprisingly rough as she spoke once more; perhaps she'd exhausted, at last, her supply of patience. "I think you misunderstood my words." She scowled, leaning closer towards him. "Excuse my language, then—when I say you should _wash_, I meant that you _really_ should wash that blood off yourself before I see fit to throw you into the depths of Gyurahn. Are you forgetting that you're in Atma's home, and, vulnerable as she is at present, that she may well be troubled by the blood on your hands?"

He grunted; then turned from her, gritting his teeth. He was, at present, in no mood to argue.

"Are you _listening_ to me?" The Amazon was relentless. Her voice was tinged, now, with mild disgust. "Get up—get up _now_!"

"Damn it, Aya!" Before he knew it, he'd jumped to his feet. His chair, thus pushed back, crashed heavily into the ground, but they were deaf to it. "Can't you see it's difficult for me!?"

"_What_ is so difficult?!" She, too, had risen, her face flushed with the sentiments within her person. "Is water so precious a commodity that you cannot bathe yourself?! A bath, Saul, to save her from the pain she's sure to experience upon glimpsing your bloodied body!"

"And what of _me_!? The woman I love lies _broken_, alone, and I can't—I can't go to her." His throat ached—yet he found he could not quiet the tempest within his chest. "Am I not allowed a moment in which to grieve on her account?!"

"She _lives_, you sanctimonious bastard! _Your _Cordelia lives, while Atma is bound to her death to care for a son who will _never_ know her again!" Her tone was that of trembling cadences as she slammed a hand upon the wooden surface of the table. "And you _have _had many hours in which to process the information—damn it, Saul, how much _slower_ could you be?!"

Something clicked within the darkness of his mind as his anger at her began to ebb away into the realm of nothingness. _Something_ was wrong. She was not one to scream, the Amazon—but she seemed to have little difficulty with it at present. He found he could not speak, nor could he draw his gaze from her.

She stood, shivering, both hands clutching at the edge of the table, her knuckles a pale, bloodless ivory. Blue-green eyes were dark with emotion, lingering anxiety amidst bitterness, fear, and hysteria. Her breathing came in harsh rasps, and though she said no more, the slant of her brows were quite enough to convey her train of thoughts. She was _terrifying_ in such a state—but more than that.

She was _terrified_.

"Araeya—" He began.

"No." She shook her head, pale-gold locks falling, once more, to shield her face. "Don't."

"But—"

"I _said_ no!" Feral eyes were narrowly slitted as she lifted her head to meet his eyes. She growled, turning, then strode towards the door. Saul saw the tensing of her shoulders, and the flexing of her fingers, and swore inwardly.

Here, now, was a wounded beast—vulnerable and frightened. And, despite the worry caught within his belly, despite his slowly-dissipating anger, he found himself concerned.

She kept her head bowed as she wrenched the bolt upwards, then flung open the wooden door, before stepping through the threshold, pausing just a moment to grunt—"Just wash that damn blood off."

And even as she stalked away, her cloak billowing in the wind about her legs, the druid could not help but wonder if, perhaps, the Amazon was, after all, just as broken as he was.

* * *

**  
Author's Note****: **Umm. Hi, guys, I'm back? I imagine large amounts of you want to kill me for taking so long with this chapter, but I swear I've got good reason! Uni's been a pain in the neck for me, and I've been SO busy with my assignments! I have NOT forgotten this fic, however, and ya'll can rest assured that I **will** finish it, no matter **what** happens. So hang in there, yes?

Thanks go out to **Ophelion**, who's been… great. Just awesomely great, without which my resolve to finish this fic would be greatly weakened. You guys should thank her by going to read and review her fic, **Bowslingers**!

Next up are **skopde**, **Luna Atra**, and **Fallen Dragonfly**, who've been as loyal to me as I've been loyal to caffeine. Thank you guys so much—I don't know what I'd do if it weren't for your reviews and kind remarks.

Thanks, also, to **Twilight Bunny** and **kick** for the reviews!

Keep reading, you guys, and look out for the next chapter, entitled, "**Riches and Relics**"! Until then, rest in the knowledge that I **shall** finish this fic, if only to get to my DIII fic, (which I've already got a **DELICIOUS** cast in mind for, ha!). It's going to be great, but I'm not going to tell y'all why—not just yet.

Anyways! Thanks, as always, drop me a line!


	28. Chapter 27: Riches and Relics

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**Chapter 27: Riches and Relics**

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She was not quite sure why, but the dawning of the new day saw the world more than unusually quiet. The early morning sunlight streaked across the bright blue skies, the golden arcs of glorious yellow warmth brushing gently upon the slowly-rustling leaves of the trees.

She took a deep breath, brushing platinum-blonde locks from her eyes. The rush of crisp, cool air into her lungs brought shivers to her spine—but she found herself smiling at the sensation.

She was _alive_.

The deep-green blades of grass tickled at the skin beneath the soles of her unshod feet, but not unpleasantly so. She inhaled—then exhaled, and inhaled again as she made her way through the grasslands set before her. The greens were enchanting, as were the wild and unbound nature of it all; and they called to her, whispering lulling melodies of tales long forgotten.

She stretched her arms up above her head, squinting against the sunlight as she fisted the fingers of her right hand. Such warmth, she mused—if she could but grasp that warmth, hold it close and allow it to burn within her breast, perhaps—just perhaps…

All too soon, she came to understand that her journey was ended. Grassy slopes gave way to sandy isles and crystalline beaches, upon which a civilization—a culture had been built. Outsiders called it Shartara.

She called it _home_.

The oiled-leather pavillions along her path were both native and alien. She found no words of response to shouted greetings—the faces were familiar, but she could match no names to them. For a fraction of a moment, she wondered at her identity—her purpose, and her destiny—then shook the thoughts from her head.

She knew her _name_, at the very least—and that, in every sense, was the very essense of _self_.

She ceased to ponder the question as the skies began to darken. Across the graying horizon, peals of crackling ivory lightning streaked from cloud to cloud, then reached out to touch, lightly, upon the surface of the ocean amidst the shattering roars of a thundering storm.

The Gods of the Skies and the Gods of the Seas were dancing, weaving the threads of pleasured song about the blanketed earth of the Sanctuary.

Time was of essense; that much was clear to her as the ice-cold raindrops began to fall, stinging hard against the skin of her face and crushing the length of her hair against her forehead and cheeks. She gasped, shuddering, as a great gust of bone-chilling wind rustled leaves and airborne dust about her still form—then gnashed her teeth, wincing slightly at the grit of sea-salt upon her tongue and the insides of her cheek.

She swore under her breath, lifting a hand to, once more, brush the hair from her eyes as she squinted into the misty greys. The pathways were deserted, now, in favour of pavillion fire-sides and hot cider. For a moment or two, she merely stood there, considering the possibility of the rain coming to a stop—but discarded the idea with a disgruntled scowl as yet another flash of lightning brightened the sky. Home was but to her left—yet she was loathe to enter into the warm indoors.

The third flash of lightning came accompanied with a thundering roar; the downpour had yet to cease. She sighed, bowing her head as she rubbed at the sides of her arms.

What was cold and rain, compared to—

"No." She growled, shaking the thoughts from her head. Then, grasping resolve within the palm of her hand, she turned, and strode towards the canvas-lined, khaki-leather pavillion.

The entrance flap had been laid shut, a perfect waterfall cascading over it from the curves of the slanted pavillion top. With one hand, she pulled the canvas aside, taking but a second to inhale, then exhale in preparation, before ducking into the darkness.

She was met with _silence_.

There were no lights—no sounds.

No sign of life, and no trace of existence.

Her legs gave way beneath her, and she fell, fell, fell onto the pelt-covered ground. Reason and meaning were abandoned—she knew only guilt and an overwhelming sense of loss. It was all a mystery to yet—yet to cry, and to grieve, seemed the right thing to do.

Meaningless, yet uncontrollable tears began to course along the sides of her face—and _they_ felt right, somehow. Her shoulders trembled with the weight of illusion; anguish without absolute reason.

And so she wept, and she grieved.

Because it was _right_.

* * *

She came awake with a great, shuddering breath, her eyes flying open in all of a split second. Shafts of early morning sunlight were beginning to stream through the panes of smoke-dulled windows; she could hear the whistling of larks and seagulls just outside.

Just a dream.

She inhaled sharply, allowing her eyes to fall shut as she buried herself deeper into the swathes of warm sheets and pelts. The pillows were soft beneath her head—she had not felt so comfortable; so _safe_, in a while.

The faintest of smiles came upon her face, though she was unaware of it, as the thick, warm arm curled about her abdomen shifted a little to pull her close. She exhaled, relaxing, as she felt the warmth of the smooth, hard torso against the skin of her naked back, then drew the blankets closer as the coconut-scented breath tickled at her jaw between a rain of gentle kisses.

Gentle kisses from a gentle man.

"You're up early."

He smiled, though his eyes were shut. Long, curly lashes rested upon his sea-weathered cheek. "As are you."

"Hmm." She shut her eyes, then rolled over onto her back before leaning into the crook between his neck and shoulder. "I'm a light sleeper."

"I wouldn't know." He responded, sounding distinctly amused. "It's only been two weeks since you've started sharing my bed. I'm afraid your sleeping habits are, as of now, lost on me." The words were quiet, the tone low—it all spoke volumes of serenity amidst quietude. "So, where are you off to, next?"

"Into the desert. Apparently, we are to retrieve several horadric artifacts—We found a cube of sorts in the Halls of the Dead, and Saul found this scroll in the sewers…"

"And that scroll tells you to see out these horadric artifacts?"

"No. _Deckard Cain_ tells us to seek—"

"Ha!"

"…Meshif." She murmured, turning slightly to drape a delicate hand upon his chest. The hand upon her abdomen was circling the flesh about her belly in small, feather-like circles; hard with callusses, yet gentle and warm.

He met her eyes with mild amusement within the depths of his own aqua blues. "Aya."

"…stop looking at me like that." She muttered, reaching out to pinch at his arm.

"Ach!" The captain wrinkled his nose, then pulled her closer, nuzzling bearded chin into her cheek. "Like _what_?"

She yelped, crying out, half amused and half annoyed as she pushed him away. "Like you want to ravage me—and _stop doing that_!"

He laughed, tossing his head back to sweep dishevelled, chocolate-brown curls from his eyes. "But I _do_ want to ravage you." His chuckle was a low and husky one as he grinned into her ear. "Again, and again, and again."

"In _my_ culture—" Araeya began, the corners of her lips curling upwards ever so slightly. "—the _women_ are dominant. Which would mean—" Slender fingers trailed along his chest as she rolled over on top of him, her knees on either side of his ribcage. He chuckled in response, lifting a brow to feign mild surprise even as she leaned into his ear. "—that if there were to be _any_ ravaging at all—" And then a pause, before, "—it would be done by _me_."

"Unfortunately—" She watched as he grinned, then laughed as he lifted warm hands to the sides of her arms to roll her over into the sheets, his weight deliciously warm against her skin as he pinned her against pelts and pillows. "—we are in Lut Gholein. I'm not precisely sure _how_ far Shartara is from here, but rest assured—" His breath was warm upon her neck as he trailed kisses along her shoulder-blades. "—we are far, _far_ away from there."

She froze. Something seemed to click within the depths of her mind, which, in mere seconds, was enveloped in naught but shadow.

Meshif gasped, as though in shock as she, somewhat more roughly than she would've chosen to, pushed him away and off of her, then sat up, backing from her, eyes narrowed in slight concern amidst confusion. One hand reached towards her, as though to offer comfort, but she slapped it away.

He flinched, as though stung. "…I'm sorry."

She swallowed, shaking her head as she sat up, gathering sheets against her chest. Her voice was low in her throat; it was as if her tongue was made of stiffened steel. "It's not you—It's… you said… I just thought of something, is all."

The captain cocked his head slightly, the lines of anxiety deepening within his forehead. "It was something I said…? Aya, wha—?"

"Shartara." She breathed, slumping forward. Her hair obstructed her vision, but she was glad of it, for once; it served well to shield her face from his sight.

There were traces of something like pity in his eyes as he cupped her cheek with his hand, lifting her face to gaze upon her visage. "This has something to do with the yelling." It was not a question.

She shook her head, hating herself by the second as impatience, co-mingled with annoyance flared within her being; she _hated_ pity. "This has _nothing_ to do with the yelling—which, by the way, Saul deserved; and you don't know me, so don't—" Her fingers were clenched in tight fists, nails digging deep into the crevices of her palms. "—don't speak as if you do."

"Maybe I would know you better if you could find it in you to open up just a little bit more." Meshif's voice was cold, though he kept his hand upon her cheek. She had clearly struck a nerve. "I may not know you as well as I should—as I _want_ to, Aya, but even I know something's wrong when it's staring me in the face. You flaunt yourself in every way, yet you shy from the advances of those who want nothing more than to understand. Do you think I am blind to it all? Did you think I would not see the glint of fear in your eyes the night you came to me?"

"Why are you angry?" She grit her teeth, eyes narrowing as she jerked his hand, roughly, from her face.

He scowled. "Why are _you_?!"

His words struck a resonant chord within her head. For a moment or two, Araeya merely sat, limp-limbed, the scowl upon her face dissipating into nothingness with every passing second. As quickly as it had risen, her temper was sapped away, leaving only an echoing chill in its wake. It had hit her, just then, that Meshif's question held much weight.

She _wasn't_ angry. There were, indeed, a torrent of emotions within her breast; but not anger, no.

Was it fear? No—fear was a different sort of emotion, one that pumped adrenaline through her veins at the speed of a galloping war-horse, so that her heart thumped against her chest as though it would never stop. Was it sorrow, then? If so, where were the tears and darkness amidst shadowed gloom? Where was the gnawing feeling of overwhelming pain and despair? Surely, it could not be sorrow, if she did not feel as she should.

Certainly, it was not anger—nor fear, or grief.

Within the span of time in which she processed her thoughts, Meshif had ceased to frown. If anything at all, the gleam that now burned within his eyes was that of concern and curiousity.

"Well?" His tone was gruff, though it lacked the resentment from before. "Am I to get an answer before breakfast, or shall we sit in bed and berate one another all day?"

"I'm _not_ angry." She scowled in mild annoyance, then shrugged her shoulders slightly.

The captain arched a bushy, unkempt brow, leaning back into plush pillows as he crossed his arms over his torso. "Right. Care to elaborate on that?"

She mirrored his movements, though with just a touch more defiance than was necessary. "On what?"

"Everything." Meshif said, flatly. "You can start by telling me just why you felt the need to yell at Master Vyreant the way you did the other day."

"Why do you care how I yell at him? Is he sharing your bed, too?"

"Just wonderfully, beautifully abrasive, my dear. That isn't getting you out of anything, however, so you may as well begin." He snorted, amusement evident within the depths of his eyes. At present, he reminded her of her father; playful, yet stern. The thought brought the faintest of smiles to her face, though she was not aware of it until the captain pointed it out. "…abrasion with a smile. That's a new one."

"…Dad." The word escaped her mouth before she had even begun to think; but it was too late to recant it, now. Even as his face clouded over in confusion, she sighed, shaking her head. There was nothing for it now—if anyone, she knew, at the very least, that _Meshif_ deserved the truth. "You know…" She began, her voice quiet. "…you remind me of my father. He was—he was my best friend, and we used to do… everything together."

He nodded; he understood. One of the best things about Meshif was his ability to do just that—to understand, and to allow one to speak without interjection.

"My mother, she was—well, if you think _I'm_ abrasive, you might not have suffered _her_ at all. But she loved my dad, and they were married. For a while, they were happy." She swallowed once, her fingers knotting idly at the folds of her coverlet. "He left when I was fifteen; said he'd had enough of her. I never saw him again." Here, she paused, swallowing once—yet once she had begun to speak, she found it difficult to stop. "For years, I lived with the knowledge that my mother drove him away. But she, too, suffered his leaving. She drank a lot, and… well, I got the worst of it."

Wordlessly, he inclinced his head once more. She heard his voice within her head, the meaning reflected within his eyes: _Go on. I'm listening._

"Aidan and Wyann were too young—I couldn't let them see their mother the way I saw her. So I sent them off to live with my relatives, and I… I set about trying to repair the damage." Her arms were chilled; she took up a pelt to wrap dark-grey fur about herself. "…it was the least I could do for them. I didn't want them to… to watch as she drank herself into violence and hatred. I didn't want them suffering the same words she had for me."

He was, as of yet, silent; though he reached out and took her hands into his own warm ones, and squeezed gently.

"She killed herself, Meshif." Araeya mumbled. The warmth of his palm was comforting; it made her braver, stronger. "She killed herself and I didn't stop her. And when she was gone, I sat there, in a pool of her blood; I couldn't move." Her voice shook just a touch, but she continued to speak—it was easy, now. "Did you know—of all the times she could've told me—of all the times we were alone together—it was only while her life came to an end that my mother decided she loved me?"

"She didn't decide it just then." It was Meshif's turn to speak, now, though his voice was low. He did not retract his hands. "She's loved you since you were born—only some people can't articulate it the way others do."

"I realise she did, and that's the worst of it. I hated that woman. I hated her when she drove my father away, and I hated her for showing me how she hated me when she _didn't_ love me. I hated her, Meshif, while she lived." Araeya grit her teeth, shuddering slightly as she inhaled, drawing in gulps of the crisp morning air. "But, did you know—when I could finally find it in myself to love her—when I finally realised that she… never hated me…" She paused a moment, bowing her head as she gripped at the hems of her cloak, her knuckles paling as she did so. Beside her, Meshif shifted ever so slightly, his eyes unwavering, upon her. "…by then, it was too late. I'd spent my whole life hating my mother—not _knowing_…"

"Aya…" His voice was gentle, though now somewhat stricken with concern—but he had every right to it. She had never shown _this_ side of her being to anyone, much less him.

She chuckled darkly, shaking her head as she leaned back, turning, at last to meet his eyes. Her voice shook ever so slightly, but the amazon did not cry—the years had hardened her against the nightmares of her past. "My whole life, Meshif—and I spent one minute of it loving my mother. She was dead the next."

He said nothing, the Captain, as he reached out to take her hands in his own warm ones, then lifted them to his lips to kiss them, his eyes upon hers. For her part, the Amazon was glad of his silence; she did not think she could take his sympathy.

Meshif was not one to offer sympathy.

She smiled the faintest of smiles, squeezing his hands as he lowered them. "You must never speak of this."

His expression was a mirror of quietude and calmness as he inclined his head ever so slightly. His lips curled just a touch, before—"…if you're to travel into the great depths of Aranoch, you're going to need a good breakfast."

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"I still don't see why you had to come."

"I've told you time and again, I'm _fine_!"

"You need to take things slow—your body is still healing!"

"It's been two weeks! If I took it any slower, I'd be a slug!"

"You almost _died_!"

"Yes, but the point is that I _didn't_! Aya, tell him!"

"Personally, I think you're _both_ stupid."

"**Araeya!**"

The amazon chuckled, rolling her eyes as she swept wind-toussled locks from her eyes. Before her, ankle-deep in golden sand were the druid and the Medjai's tia-aldyn, both of which had turned to exclaim their displeasure at her previous words. Their faces were alike; both had foreheads lined with frowns, and the faintest vestiges of scowls upon the sides of their lips. The days spent in their company had confirmed her impressions of the two—they were young in the ways of warfare, though neither could truly be considered inexperienced; they had, after all, defeated the demoness Andariel.

They bickered, as friends often did—but there was something subtle about the way she caught his eyes, just as there was a quiet, yet almost feral hunger in his gaze as he returned her glances in silence. They were, the both of them, obstinate, and far too stubborn to admit defeat. Yet, it was obvious that they loved one another—that much was clear, even to the amazon, who felt herself an outsider in this particular field of sentiments.

It all rather amused her, the endless charade between man and woman. The rules of propriety within the walls of Lut Gholein were born of aristocratic idealogies; she had little tolerence for them. If a man loved a woman, and she, in turn, returned his affections, then it was the will of the Gods that they be allowed to marry. Political bethrothals were foreign notions to her; they meant naught, and were not honoured in the lands of her birth. Yet here within the expanse of Aranoch, she'd discovered, bethrothals were as common to merchants as they were to royalty.

Some part of her emphatised with the Medjai sorceress. To marry into royalty—much less into the royal house of Lut Gholein, where Jerhyn, the handsome, stood the heir, was the dream of many a desert girl; yet to be forcibly put into such a union, when love existed between one and another man, was nothing short of a nightmare.

_She_, of course, would never concede to such madness.

They'd traveled a day and a night, pressing on in the harshness of weather both scorching hot and chilling cold. It had been an unspoken agreement among the three that they stopped as minimally as was possible, given the circumstances; the forces of hell were not, after all, inclined to rest. Even as the amazon contemplated time, she found herself bathed in the warm, yellow glow of the early morning sun. Across the golden sands of the desert lands, the world began to waken.

Stretching her arms above her head, longbow held tight within the palm of her right hand, Araeya took a deep breath; then blinked as she saw that which the light had come to illuminate.

They were men; tall, and dark, of obvious desert heritage. At least twenty of them stood surrounding the three—and they were armed.

She thought, for a fraction of a second, that she'd imagined their presence; then one of them stood forward, bright-white teeth set in a toothy smile as he bent his body forwards, with an exeggerated flourish of a bow.

"Greetings, wanderers." His words were crisp, though tinged with a distinct desert accent. Dark, olive-green eyes met her own blue-green ones for the briefest of moments, before shifting along the length of her body, as though appraising the worth of what she wore and carried. "My name is Bhrett, and I bid you fair morn'." A dramatic pause, in which he turned towards the sorceress. "And how may we address ye folk?"

Saul was the first to speak; and Araeya was glad to see that he, too, was guarded against them. "We are mere travelers, as you have ascertained. Our names are our business; I fail to see how it should concern you."

"Well, it is customary in Aranoch society to exchange names where necessary." Bhrett rolled his shoulders back slightly, joints clicking as he flexed his fingers about the hilt of his double-edged sabre. "We mean only to be polite."

"And polite you have been." The druid inclined his head towards the other, though his eyes were slightly narrowed. "And if you will excuse us, we have dealings to attend to."

She knew his move before he made it; yet another superficial grin, and the spreading of arms in a show of comradery. The single, diamond-encrusted brooch upon the front of his black-linen turban glinted in the sunlight. "Ah, but we are in no hurry now, are we? Come, join us, travelers; we'll while the morn' away."

"We mean you no disrespect, but really—" It was Cordelia, now, who spoke. There were the faintest tinges of impatience within her voice, as was equally obvious from the slant of her lips. "—but we are in quite a hurry. Please excuse us."

Bhrett was clearly not amused. Thick, dark brows arched themselves in a show of mild displeasure, though this was quickly hidden beneath a low, rumbling snicker as he adjusted his stance. "I wouldn't do that, lass."

Cordelia blinked, slowly, as though she were taking it all in—then frowned. Dust swirled about her legs, caking her boots with golden sand as she turned, slightly, to back away towards Saul. She did not speak—there was no need for words.

"You see—I know you do." Bhrett's smile was taunting, now. "We are not travelers, as you are. Rest assured, your presence elates us—we have not had the company of your kind in quite some time." His cloak; a dark, jade-coloured velvet swirled about his legs as he moved, strode, towards the amazon. She felt hungry eyes upon the curve of her neck, but chose to ignore them—she'd had more than enough experience with lustful glances to know that they were best disregarded. "Such—beautiful young maidens—such flawless complexion as one could but _hope_ to touch."

Even _she_ could sense warning bells when they came. One hand caressed the feathery fletch of an arrow—it hung at her waist, a separate, spare bundle, far easier to reach for as opposed to the full-size quiver strapped to her back.

One arrow; one aim—one _second_.

"As much as I emphatise with you, Bhrett, I must ask that you maintain your distance of me." Her voice was low, though honey-sweet—a dangerous combination, as any who knew her well would say. She was, after all, an Amazon—a woman's pride resided within the veins of her body. "I should not like to hurt you."

"Ah, yes. Because you, and you, and you—" Bhrett inclined his head lazily towards Saul, who stood, rooted to the ground, his face a mask of disgust and silent anger—for, Cordelia, too, received jeering calls, and suffered the leering of men. "—are so very equipped to thwart our plans."

Cordelia released a low moan, throwing her head back as she rolled her eyes. "Your plans? And what plans might they be?"

He grinned, took a step back to regard all three of them in silence. Lifted a hand to wag a finger. Then paused, his eyes betraying an enigma of amusement as a length of gnarled, golden wood, swathed in crimson silk was passed into his hands. "Nobody." His words were crisp—he knew, full well, what he wanted. What they wanted. "_Nobody_ comes into this part of the desert without a driving force—without purpose. You want something."

"And you believe you have what we want?" There was a touch of frustrated terseness in the way the druid spoke. Overhead, clearly visible in cloudless skies was Ceres, who drifted to and fro, though she was not inclined to land at present.

Bhrett laughed—and his men with him. "I don't _believe_ I have what you want. I _know_."

"What is it we seek, then?" Cordelia was scowling now; and for a moment or two, Araeya thought she saw the druid recoil in silent terror at the venom in her voice. The thought rather amused her. "If you believe yourself the wiser, then please, enlighten us."

"Treasure, of course. The vastness of riches that lay beneath the desert sands are no more than those who would dig them free of their fetid prisons." A glimmer of avarice passed Bhrett's eyes, but Araeya was blind to it; _her_ eyes lay upon the object within his hand. "We found this gem within the lair of the maggots; nasty stuff. Yes. I know what you're thinking—you _want_ this."

Cordelia narrowed her eyes—she, too, had clearly recognised the relic for what it was. The diagrams within the Horadric scroll were but all too detailed in their descriptions of the mythical Staff of Kings. "You're not going to just give it to us."

"You, Red, are smart." The smirk upon Bhrett's face was one of triumph; the face of a gambler with a winning hand. "Now what do you have that could possibly be of any interest to me?"

She released a long, heavy breath, clearly exasperated as she brushed crimson locks from her eyes. "Look." She began, her voice stern as she motioned towards Saul beside her. "If you want _him_, you can't have him. We need him around for odd jobs and the like." And then, as an afterthought, "—and for the luggage."

If Saul was stung by her words, he didn't show it—on the contrary, he laughed, in the perfectly cacophonous symphony that was Bhrett's, and his men's laughter. _They_ were, obviously, amused.

"We have ourselves a shrew, men!" Bhrett's words were greeted with a cheering response. "How wonderfully sharp you are, Red!"

Cordelia blinked—then clasped hands over arms, her expression completely deadpan. "I'll make this easy for the both of us. What will you have in the place of that staff?"

"Such pleasures as can be offered to us." Came the answer. His eyes glinted as he, silently, stepped behind the sorceress, leaning into her ear, his voice a loud, rather mocking stage whisper. "I trust you know of what I speak."

She did not flinch—did not move. Araeya found herself applauding Cordelia's gall; though she would have, for _her_ part, punched the smirk from Bhrett's face a long time ago

"I'm sorry." Cordelia's eyes were slanted as she turned her head to regard the man, her voice crisp with subdued disgust. "But you can't have us."

"Then you can't have your relic." Bhrett sighed once, taking a step back as he ran tender fingers along the length of the golden staff. "Easy as that."

Araeya clicked her tongue; impatience had finally gotten the best of her. "We could just take it by force."

Bhrett's eyes shifted in but an instance, mirthful and amused. He lifted the golden staff, then threw it carelessly aside, where one of his men—a tall, lanky one, caught it. Threw aside his cloak to reveal a set of twin scimitars. Drew the blades from within their sheathes, and stared the amazon in the eye. He grinned. "I'd like to see you try."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Hello, hello, hello! I've missed you guys! (I'm sure some of y'all have missed me too.) Once again, I am SO sorry about how long I took—I've just been so busy lately, what with Christmas, Chinese New Year, and the general bustle of starting a new semester. But I did manage to get good grades for last sem, so I'm happy about that, yes.

Alright, so, thanks go out to:

**Ophelion**, as always, for being here, being brilliant, and for being part of the reason my musenergy never runs out.

**Luna, skopde**, and **Fallen Dragonfly** for being so loyal to this fic; I can't tell you guys how much it means to me.

**FantasyFreak4Life, Twilight Bunny** and **DefenderOfMan**, thanks so much for your reviews!

**Jormund Elver** and **JupponGatana** for the kind reviews. Thanks for reading my fic, and I hope you'll continue to enjoy until the very end!

And last, but not least to **Medalia**, for the most insightful review. It means so much to me; I'm glad you like my fic, and I'll work on what you pointed out. ^.^

Thanks also to all those of you who fav'ed and alert'ed this fic (besides those already mentioned above!): **NiennaFaelivrin**, **Zanger**, **Matian** and **Shadowsndust**!

Phew, I hope I didn't miss anyone out. Anyways! Look out for the next chapter, **"The Eclipse"** for some awesome, butt-kickin' fun, and until then, I'm out!


	29. Chapter 28: The Eclipse

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**Chapter 28: The Eclipse**

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It was said in wives' tales, and in the desert legends of old, that the God of Night loved the Gale Maiden. She was flighty; she danced, and she sang, over, and over, across desert sands. Where she went, the winds, too, followed—for she was, after all, the mistress. In the light of day, she was warm and unbound, fierce in the liberty with which she was permitted. And so it was that the God of Day found her, prancing restlessly through the course of time that was his domain. And he, as his nocturnal brother had, fell in love with her.

And so the Day and Night were seperated; and never again were they to speak. In time, the God of Night, with the beauty of the glimmering Mother Moon, won over the heart of the Gale Maiden—and they were wed beneath the light of a thousand stars. Gale was cold in the hours of Night's domain—but equally ferocious; she tore at the bodies of sand beneath the soles of her windswept feet, dancing in whirlwinds of bitter chill. And still, Night loved her, and for an age, they were happy. But Gale's was an erratic soul, and she soon discovered the joys of Day—the joys which Night were unable to offer. And so, one fateful day, she left Night to seek out day.

The days grew cold, and the nights grew hot. It was not too long before the changes began to wear upon the world—for what was out of order was considered unnatural. Balance was yet to be restored. In this time, Night sought his wife, searching the scorching deserts from twilight to dawn, and found nothing of her. And when hope had ceased to burn within his breast, he gazed into the heavens, spent—for day had come, and he had not a single ounce of strength in him, with which he could return to his hours. It was then that the Mother Moon took pity upon him—and, gathering her skirts of silver silk, crossed the skies of day to shield him from the light of Day. And so, Day was eclipsed by his brother, who, then, for the first time, wielded power in the hours of light.

Mother Moon gave Night a rope of frozen glass, with which to subdue the tempestuous Gale—then kissed him, and bade him farewell. She warned him of the limits to his time; she could but block the Lord of the Skies for a span of an hour. And so, in haste, Night searched; and, but mere minutes before the end of the darkness, found Gale, hidden away within the outskirts of the Great City of Schezirith. He took her under his wings, and held her close. And so Gale succumbed to the husband she left—and so he bound her to him with Mother Moon's rope; and together, they faded away into the end of the eclipse.

And so, desert nights were to be, forevermore, swathed in the bitter cold of Gale's moonlit dances.

* * *

He could feel jagged splinters against the flesh of his wrist, no doubt roughened fibres from the length of rope they had used to bind him. His person had been placed so that he leaned backwards into the slender trunk of a dry, desert-worn tree, his back pressed firm against the knobbly wooden surface. Even through the lumps of congealed blood clogging his nose, the druid could trace the stench of his mouth—it was all he could do to keep himself from expurging the scanty contents of his stomach.

He wiggled a toe; and then a finger.

_Good_, he thought. His reflexes, at the very least, had been spared. How had the rest of him fared?

Bracing himself for pains hitherto unknown, he wiggled the toe again—then gnashed his teeth and made to bend his knee. If he were, indeed, injured, this would be the quickest way to tell.

Nothing.

Somehow, and for some reason, the thought of it brought chills along the length of his spine. Nothing; he was unharmed. Tentatively, he moved the other leg, and discovered that which surprised him further.

Nothing, yet again.

He swallowed. Once, and then again, his breath coming in slow, steady takes, as though he were resting upon a bed of silk, as opposed to a gritty surface of sand. The chilling winds of Aranoch nights bit into his skin, but, given the circumstances, he felt they were no hindrance. He repeated the wiggling of his finger—and, tensing his abdomen, then flexed his hands, and both of them, at the same time.

Again, he felt nothing. Was this cause for alarm, now?

_Paralysis?_

He shook his head furiously, willing the fear to leave his mind as his eyes sprang open, wide with alarm and wet with irritation from foreign subtances. It was but half a second later before the sharp, splitting pain hit the very depths of his skull, forcing his eyes shut as the world began to swim. He tried to curse aloud in agitation, but it came out wrong—a weakened moan, where he had asked for words. Images, memories, from the previous battle flooded his mind. They had lost; they had lost _badly_.

_Not paralysis. But Gods, the images…_

Within darkened corners of his mind, striking vivid pictures amidst black and grey, he saw them, in numbers far greater than three, engage the amazon, protecting torso, face, arm, and leg from her arrows with great tower shields. He watched as they flung phials of gaseous acrid poison about the sorceress, and felt his heart within his throat as they knocked her hard, face-first, into the sand.

Oh, yes. They had lost—and pathetically so, at that. The very idea of it burned, just as utter humiliation, just as blind guilt, and just as feral rage burned. They had lost to a band of tomb-raiders. He had failed to protect Cordelia.

Oh, how it burned.

The slender fingers that were bound beside his own twitched ever so slightly, nails scraping against the flesh of his palm. For the moment, he found he had not the effort to discover if it were the amazon, or the sorceress—he was not quite sure if his voice had deigned to return just yet.

She moaned a little, and he could feel the shift of fabric against his shoulder; and her fingers, once more, brushed against his—but there was now something familiar about the way the supple fingertips found the crooks of his palm-lines. Her head drooped, slowly, slowly, to her side; then fell, quite without warning, into the crook of his shoulder. She shuddered, the motion rippling beneath her skin as though she were cold.

He was sure, now. Chewing lightly upon his tongue, the druid flexed his fingers once more, then clenched his jaw, and forced his eyes open. The waves of nausea would have overpowered him, if he had not chosen to ignore them by counting to ten. He blinked, with each whispered number, and, _thank the Gods of the Sanctuary_, the overwhelming urge to vomit subsided, and twos became ones once more.

Cordelia had her eyes open, though they were fixed straight ahead, upon the flickering lamp-lights of the looters' makeshift camp. From his angle, he could see a bleeding and swollen cut just above the arch of her left eye, but he was almost uncomfortably certain that she was hurt in more ways than this.

He cleared his throat, gently, pressing his cheek into the top of her head as he did so. "Cordy."

She stiffened at the sound of her name, though she did not lift her head from his shoulder. Her fingers tensed away from his behind them, but he caught a hold of her little finger with his, and kept it locked within. "Were you awake the whole time?" She murmured.

"No. If I had, we would've been broken free by now."

"…that isn't funny, and you know it." Her voice spoke volumes of pained indignance, though he could see the faintest curl of her lips—she was, at the very least, mildly amused. "Are you hurt?"

He shook his head—and then, having remembered that she couldn't see him, muttered, "No. Are you?"

She shrugged, though he could hear the sharp hiss of pain that filtered through her teeth as she did so. "Nothing that can't be put back in place." A pause, before, "We need a plan."

"I agree."

"Okay, then." The sorceress shifted again, wiggling a little in her spot as though to find a more comfortable position. She did not lift her head from his shoulder—and he was grateful for it. "Any thoughts?"

He crooked a small, somewhat cheeky smile, though it was hardly the time, nor place. "Your husband-to-be will send some men, I'm sure, once he figures out that you've disappeared from within your gilder cage. Yes, don't give me that look—" He smirked a little, shaking his head just a touch. "—I _know_ you didn't tell him."

For several long moments, she merely lay in silence, her gaze taking on a contemplative cast, though she ignored his last words. When she spoke, her voice was solemn. "I'm sure he _will_ send someone, if not a whole army, but in case he does not—"

"—he will."

She lifted her head a little, turning her face just a touch, though she did not meet his gaze. "Right." Then she fell silent.

He watched as she, very slowly, chewed upon her lower lip, her eyes fixed resolutely upon the looters' camp once more. Several minutes passed, and she made to lift her head from his shoulder—perhaps she had found enough strength to sit upright. But if the druid were quite frank with himself, he'd say it was for another reason entirely; she had found propriety. If Jerhyn were to discover them in so close an embrace, her reputation, and that of the Medjai, would be tarnished. If he knew her well enough, he'd say she were not one to desire such a position as to become the blemish upon the surface of the Medjai.

Yet he wondered, even as he looked upon her visage. _Would she throw it all away for the love of a man?_

He flexed his fingers once more, but she did not bother to respond, with speech, or otherwise. And so, he spoke—but his voice trembled; the question upon the tip of his tongue held an answer he both desired, and feared. "Cordy—do you love him?"

Her answer was prompt enough, and she spoke with a quiet sort of bluntness. "No." There came no elaboration.

He had expected such an answer, even in the midst of nagging doubt. But he held his tongue, and reigned in the beast within his chest, merely content to sit upon her response for several long moments, before he could hold himself no more. "How do you marry someone you don't love?"

"I surpress my heart and feelings." Again, her tone was frank, her words brisk, yet solemn. "I don't suppose it will prove to be too hard a task when the time comes."

"You shouldn't have to." He muttered.

She was silent just then, as though deep in thought. He half thought she would cry, but she did not. Instead, she straightened, and, as far as the ropes would allow, turned towards him, so that she faced him squarely. He could see, now, the grim resolution within the depths of her eyes, and within the hard line of her pursed lips.

"It is not a bad living, you know." She began, slowly; clearly, she was choosing her words wisely, sorting emotions from objectivity in her attempt to speak in favour of the latter. "Many women would give all to be in my shoes. To marry into the royal house of Lut Gholein, to be the Queen Consort of His Royal Highness, Jerhyn, the soon-to-ascend King. She would have the finest of silks, the warmest of furs, and the most extravagent strings of pearls, and diamonds, and gems. There will be jewels, and there will be that crown—and then there will be the children, all of which are promised inheritances of all the wealth that may be found in so fine a nation. She would be his beloved, and she would sit on the throne, to be no less to him than his partner in rule, and in all other matters. She would be his right hand." Here, she paused, and he could see that her lower lip trembled; she wavered just a touch, though there were the faintest traces of a smile, both longing and sad within the curve of her lips. "Yes—I find many women to envy my position, Saul. He isn't terribly ugly, either, so I really shouldn't complain."

"Well." He wrinkled his nose slightly, and then, for lack of anything better to say, muttered, "—you can't say he's a more handsome creature than me."

That brought forth a quiet chuckle, though she was quick to surpress it. "Yes, but I'm not bethrothed to _you_."

It was his turn, now, to smile the sad smile. It felt almost as if someone had forced a hand into his throat, to squeeze muscle and bone tightly together, constricting voice and breath. "D'you think—given, that it were… possible…" He murmured, looking her in the eye as he did so. "…in completely different circumstances, Cordelia, would you have loved me?"

She made a low, softened 'Ha!', shutting her eyes as she bent her head forward, as though she could no longer bear to meet his gaze. "I don't think your knowing the answer would make things any more easy for the both of us, Saul." The words were whispered but lightly, though even _he_ could sense their weight.

_That_, however, was a conversation for another time.

The woman bound at his other side coughed, stirring from her sleep with a hoarse, irritable moan. It was to his horror that the druid came to realise that he'd almost entirely forgotten the welfare of his other companion—she had, after all, made it all too clear, and on far too many occasions that she was quite able to care for herself. He winced, then turned about to catch a glimpse of her, and was met with the sight of her spitting blood from her mouth. There were traces of clotted blood upon the line of her scalp, and her platinum-blonde locks, soiled with mud and limp with sweat was matted to her scalp.

She glared at him, as though daring him to make some comment on her appearance, but he had nothing to say. It was she who spoke first. "I cannot believe that the two of you have been sitting here all this while, with nothing to discuss save the state of your own romantic affairs. Ugh—" She turned aside, and spat again, wincing, as though the motion hurt her. "—you really _are_ a couple of lovesick mewlings."

"I'm glad you're unhurt, too, Aya." He muttered, aside, then flinched as she gave a derisive snort. "We just got sidetracked, is all. There's no need to be spiteful."

"And there could've been a better time for you to pour out your heart and soul, but—" She paused, her countenence becoming wary as she stiffened in her slump; then she straightened, as best as she could, even as the softened thuds of booted feet upon the sand arose within the air. "Have you come to see if we've died?"

He cocked his head gently at her words, but soon realised they were not meant for him. Cursing his slowness at comprehending, the druid turned from her, and found himself face-to-face with the man who had, with the command of so many men, guaranteed their loss.

Up-close, Saul saw that Bhrett, having removed his turban, was of greater age than he'd initially supposed. Long, deep-brown hair fell in waves about his waist, combed sleekly back at his forehead, half of it tied back. Silken streaks of silver-grey lined the sides of his head, but served only to elevate his appearance—he could just as easily be the ruler of Lut Gholein, if put in Jerhyn's clothes.

The tomb-raider grinned. "I very much doubt one could die with so little effort on my part."

"Well, we are all of us very much alive." Cordelia muttered, dryly—gone was the sensitive nature from before, with which she had discussed the matters of her heart. "What do you want?"

For his part, Saul found himself rather intrigued, if not slightly frightened of the manner in which the sorceress conducted herself towards those so very obviously beneath her. It was almost as if she thought Bhrett a common sand maggot—and it didn't take a child prodigy to point out that she wanted very much to squash him into the ground. The thought of it very nearly made him laugh, though, with some effort, he managed to hold it all in; he didn't think it would be considered very wise to snicker while in such a state. Araeya, for one, would find it exceedingly stupid, and he was sure of it.

"Nothing from you just yet, Red." Bhrett knelt upon the ground before Cordelia, taking her face with his fingers and thumb on either sides of her cheek, then leaned close into her, and with his free hand, smoothed crimson locks from her forehead. "But maybe, just maybe, when the sun sets—"

"Over my dead body." She hissed, between clenched teeth. "Or, rather, I should prefer if it were over _your_ dead body."

"A pity." Bhrett sighed, shaking his head just a touch as he gave her cheek a gentle pat, then released her entirely. "I should hate to force a woman."

Saul was annoyed, now. He was quite sure it showed in the way he'd straightened, but he had no cause to hide it. "By the Gods, Bhrett, if you so much as touch her again, I will see to it that you are unmanned." He grit his teeth, narrowing his eyes as he stared towards the other. "Permanently."

The tomb-raider laughed, his eyes rolling back as he shook his head; whether it was from disbelief, or amusement, the druid did not know. Nor did he care, for that matter. "Oh, calm yourself, man, I have no real desire to steal your woman." He glanced aside towards Araeya, who merely scowled. "Or _women_, as it were. I will, however, have your aid in a matter I deem of _grave_ importance."

"What tomb—or shall I say, _grave_, are you heading off to plunder _now_?"

"Ah, you caught that!" Bhrett grinned, his teeth white and clean despite the blackness of his intentions. "Wonderful. This shall go on much easier, then."

"Huh." Saul grunted, scowling. He could tell when he was cornered. "Go on."

"You see." The other began, lifting a hand to rub at his stubbled chin. "Our presence is required in the ancient tunnels beneath the sands of the Lost City of Schezirith. It was once a city of great, sparkling diamonds—even greater than the port of Lut Gholein." His eyes glittered, as they did, only in the face of riches and wealth. For a fleeting second, Saul wondered whether the desert ruffian had known of the gold amassed within the depths of the forgotten tower in Entsteig; whether he would've gone, as Cordelia had done, into its catacombs, braving horrors untold, all for the sake of gold and glory. "It is said that the tunnels are but corridors into greater chambers that make up the burial halls of the heathen kings of old. If that is true, we are sure to discover a trove of treasure."

"And if it's not true?" Saul countered, grimly. "The tunnels could be but sewers, and I doubt much would be found in there. And even if they were burial halls, how are you to be sure that they have not already been emptied of everything of worth?"

"Oh, we _can't _be sure." Bhrett's tone was mild, even jovial, to a very small degree. "That's why we bother in the first place. There's the thrill of the chase, and the thought of our great reward at the end of it all is enough to sustain us. If we are detined to find empty hallways and death within those chambers, then so be it."

"While you are quite willing to die for your cause, I am not." Saul began. He was starting to feel just a touch uncomfortable. "I have no desire to plunder the graves of the dead—I'm afraid my mother taught me better manners than that."

"And mine was cold in her grave long before I learnt _my_ manners." The tomb-raider was stern, now. He would not take no for an answer—not now that they had discussed the matter thus far. "We leave at dawn."

And, just like that, he pushed himself upright, and turned away, his cloak swishing about his legs as he strode towards his camp, his head held high.

Beside the druid, Araeya released a low grunt of annoyance, then muttered, darkly, under her breath—"I wonder if anyone's raided _her_ grave."

* * *

By the time Bhrett and his men saw fit to stop and rest their limbs, the sun had made its way into its zenith at the heart of the brilliant blue sky. The day was hot, as was the norm within the desert, but even more just then—there were no clouds to bring the comfort of shade to weary travelers.

He had, just before their untimely loss to the bandits, asked that Ceres fly high into the heavens, out of the range of arrows and other such attacks that would serve to bring her down. To his understanding, lone birds were often shot at, and even more so in the company of those who had just cause to be wary of the outside world. She had resisted at first, but Saul could only suppose that she'd listened, and left; he had found no sign of her, whether dead or alive. The men had not discussed it otherwise, and he was glad of it—he didn't think he'd enjoy news of her death.

They had been inclined to untie him, so that he was able to walk free amidst them. Bhrett would, of course, have had realised that he would do them no harm while both Cordelia and Araeya were in the grasp of his palm. Saul was not, at any rate, inclined towards the fighting of twenty men, and on his own. too.

"We are soon to arrive at the entrance of Schezirith. Take heart." Bhrett had come up towards him, one hand clasped gently over the hilt of his sheathed scimitar. He had resumed his turban and cloak, and there hung a piece of cloth over his nose and mouth, shielding both from the harshness of the desert.

"Have the ancient tunnels been found yet?" Saul straightened in his seat ever so slightly, rubbing at the sides of his arms as yet another gust of warm air tickled at his sleeves. "I daresay Schezirith had now become a wide expanse of sand. We should have a better chance of reaching in good spirits if there is a proper map to follow."

"My men have mapped the area out." The elder responded briskly, adjusting the lines of his polished leather glove as he squinted out across the sand dunes. "We will find our way there swiftly—worry not."

"I'm not worried." The druid muttered, dryly. "Just slightly annoyed, but I don't really have a choice in the matter now, do I?"

Even through the rough linen covering his nose and mouth, Saul could see that Bhrett was amused. He certainly _sounded_ amused as he snickered, shaking his head several times as he made a quiet 'tch' under his breath. "No, you don't. Might as well just take it all in as best as you can, lad."

"And how—" Saul began, knowing his tone to be just a touch bitter as he spoke, "—might I do that, without so much as a sign to when I may go free? You forget, Bhrett, that my ideals are not yours. You can't keep us here forever."

The elder bandit shrugged once, his expression seeming to change into one of more solemn qualities as he pulled a turquoise-handled dagger from his belt. He ran calloused and tanned fingers over the hilt of twisted dark silver, within which a great many turquoise stones had been set; then stopped his thumb just as it came upon the headstone of the hilt—a smooth, rounded mother-of-pearl.

He paused—then leaned over, holding the blade out towards the druid as he did so. "It is true that your ideals are not mine. However—" Here, he paused, motioning for the druid to take the blade. "—you are already in such a state. Complaining, or refusing to co-operate won't change a thing, save perhaps my mood, and I'm not always as genial as I have proven to be." His tone was friendly enough, though Saul could see, now, that there was a gleam—a dangerous gleam, within the depths of his eyes.

"Right." Saul muttered, shaking his head as he reached out to take a hold of the blade. Personally, he would've preferred his own to it, but, as it were, the bandits of Aranoch were not inclined to return his things as of yet.

Bhrett had but seconds ago turned from him—but, almost immediately, returned to his side, a grimace carved deep within the lines of his forehead. The druid could not help but to frown at this new development; something, clearly, was very wrong. But he had barely had time to form the question upon the tip of his tongue before the earliest blemish of a darkening sky surrounded them. Twilight had come, hours before it was due.

An eclipse of the sun.

"That is an unnatural eclipse." Bhrett's tone was sour, and his stance grim. "The one we see but once every five years is not due until three months from now."

"And this eclipse serves to prove…?"

The faintest of smirks came to rest upon the lips of the bandit—then disappeared, in favour of a more serious expression. His eyes were narrowed, though whether from wariness, or annoyance, the druid could not tell. "Nothing, save that something dark is at work. Now come, we had best be on our way."

And, even as Bhrett made towards his company, calling for them to move out, Saul found himself wondering at whatever luck it was that had brought him to such a state. Then he remembered Bhrett's words—then sighed, shaking his head.

_How bad can this be? It may yet serve as an experience worth remembering._

Yes, He would hold onto those thoughts, which were somewhat more happy than his previous ones. And he would go into battle, deep within the vaults of Schezirith, and hope against hope that they were not merely marching stupidly towards uncomely deaths.

* * *

**Author's Note****:** Wooohoooo! And that's another chapter from me! I'm so sorry this one took so very horribly wrong. The usual things have been plaguing me; assignments, assignments, sickness, more assignments—you get it. I did, however, enjoy writing the fluff between Saul and Cordy. Oh, yes, it's going to get even juicier from here onwards. Ha!

Thanks go out to: **Ophelion**, for, as always, keeping me company throughout dry spells for writing.

Thanks also to **Luna**, **skopde**, **Fallen Dragonfly**, **Medalia, Tel Loiryn, JupponGatana **for reviewing so diligently. 8D

Thanks to **FantasyFreak4Life**; I'm sorry you gave up on Saul and Cordy, and just as they were due to start, too, but I doubt a romance that blossomed as quickly as you wanted would've been believable for the rest of my readers.

Thanks also to **Treuan Xela **for the review, and to **Twilight Bunny** for the Kei-dedication piece on deviantART.

Also, last but not least, thanks go out to **Druss the Legend** for C2-ing this fic, and to all those who fav-ed and alerted me! Thanks so very much, and keep em' coming please!

Until then, watch out for my next chapter, **"The Women and the Men"**, due sometime… soon. Yeah, soon. Until then, ciao!


	30. Chapter 29: The Women and the Men

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**Chapter 29: The Women and the Men**

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_Brilliant, Aya, just brilliant._

That, at present, was the only word she found she could use to describe their situation. Spoken beyond the voices of her thoughts, it would, of course, reek of irony and sarcasm; yet all the amazon found she could muster the strength to do was to lean back and scowl.

It was brilliant, really. Brilliant that they, three warriors; two of whom had defeated the demoness Andariel, and another, a skilled amazonian archer, had fallen prey to the ambitions of mere bandits. The thought of it was enough to bring bitter venom into the very foundations of her pride. Commoners and thieves! They were captives of commoners and thieves! She would laugh at the absurdity of it all, if it did not hurt her quite so much to move. The constraints of rope about her chest and wrists were bound tight, as though she were a slippery foe capable of squeezing through rough hemp fibres. Then again, she was not one to complain, nor would she descend to the level of a helpless damsel in distress.

"Is it twilight already?"

She glanced aside towards the Medjai princess, who, despite her bindings, sat upright, with her legs stretched out before her. In that moment, Araeya fully began to appreciate that her companion, too, was not one to complain; she didn't think she could bear the whining protests of a spoilt and pampered child. "I don't think so."

Cordelia frowned, though her face was otherwise devoid of any other sentiment. "Neither did I, but look up there."

The skies were as yet, bright, as the amazon leaned backwards, slanting her eyes in an upwards gaze—but there was something unnatural in the way that the clouds were grey, and in the way that the great carpet of the heavens above shifted hues; bright blue, and then a darker blue, faintly tinged with shades of oranges, pinks, and golds, before finally taking on the shadowy depths of a cold midnight sky.

"An eclipse?"

"I don't know. But it doesn't _feel_ right, somehow." The sorceress muttered through gritted teeth—then turned to meet the amazon's eyes. "More importantly, however." She paused, jerking her head towards the looters' encampment. "What're we going to do about them?"

_One, two. Ah, three._

"How tight are your ropes?" She cast a sidelong glance towards the other, wrinkling her nose slightly; for her part, she could hardly move, let alone attempt to wriggle free. Several yards away, one of the three left behind to guard them—he was a short and stout man—yelled for his replacement. Araeya watched, eyes narrowed, as he was relieved; then muttered—"I don't think I can get out of this without a little help."

Cordelia gave no response but to grunt; and the amazon thought it wise to understand the gesture as a negative. Despite that, she could feel the movement of their shared ropes, the hemp grinding into the flesh of her wrists, scraping her skin raw; no doubt caused by the fidgeting of the sorceress in her efforts to free herself.

It hurt. She hated to admit it, but it hurt, and it hurt a lot.

"Will you stop it?" She spat, at last; then exhaled in visible relief as the sorceress ceased to move. "Gods, what were you hoping to achieve?"

"I don't know, but anything's better than just _sitting_ here." Cordelia, too, was clearly annoyed now, the tone of her voice a low, irritable growl as she hissed. "Do _you_ have a better plan?"

She bit her lip. The truth of the matter was that they were stuck; that much was obvious. Yet deep within the corners of her mind, the amazon found that she did, indeed have some inkling as to what could be done, and how. The problem at hand now was to articulate it in words that would enable the Medjai princess to understand the solution, without instant rejection.

How would a woman convince another to sell herself?

"They're men." She began, slowly. "And as such, are easily… bought over."

As expected, the Medjai princess was not quick to comprehend, and her tone suggested impatience as she muttered—"Yes, but we have nothing to bribe them with."

"Cordelia." Again. She would try again, and slowly. "Do you know where a man's eyes are affixed when conversing with a woman?"

_That_ earned her a look of utter bewilderment; clearly, her sentiments were not understood. "—what? Aya, surely there are better times than now to speak in riddles?"

She sighed, wincing just a touch as she sat up straighter—her back was beginning to ache. "Good god, Cordelia, are you a woman or not? They look at your breasts, you foolish child, while you speak, and if they don't, it means one of two things; that you are undesirable, or that they are honourable men. These—" She hissed, jerking her head towards the looters' encampment, before continuing, "—are _not_ honourable men, and you, naïve though you may be, are _not_ undesirable."

Her words were met with several long seconds of silence, before, in exasperation—"Are you _mad_?! You would have us both sell ourselves for our freedom?"

"Not _bed_ them, you dolt, seduce them!"

The Medjai princess was not convinced; that much was obvious from the scowl upon her face. "There is in no way I am going to sacrifice myse—" And then, cutting herself off, as though in indignance, "—_do you know how much these virgin thighs are worth_?!"

Araeya blinked once. Then chuckled dryly, before turning to face the other. "You really are quite foul under pressure." She observed, mildly—then managed a small, somewhat dour grin. "I like you a lot better right now."

"Shut up. I refuse to listen to the rest of your plan. I won't, I absolutely won't."

"…what if _I_ do it?"

"What?" The sorceress was frowning, now, her mouth wide agape with disbelief. "Look, don't put yourself in this kind of danger; it's not worth it."

"It is, actually." Araeya muttered, grimly, tossing the hair from her face as she shifted her eyes towards the encampment once more. "They can't touch me if I knock them out first."

Cordelia scowled. "It's still too dangerous."

She could not help her snort of amusement as she shook her head languidly. "Let's bet on it, then. If I spring us from this situation, you, _tia-aldyn_, will do exactly as I say over the course of the next two days. If I fail, you may have the same service of me."

"But I—" Came the protest.

Araeya smirked, stretching out with her little finger to hook Cordelia's within it; then pulled, gently, before exclaiming, with a grin of wild amusement—"Done."

* * *

_A thousand and fifty four gold pieces, plus the worth of three diamond-encrusted goblets, plus a gilded sword with a giant ruby pommel, plus a set of slip-on claws of pure platinum, plus…_

"Gods, glorious gold!"

It was thus that the druid discovered; he had lost count. _Again_.

He swore.

Once more, he bent over, eyes narrowed in disgust. Once more he cursed the bandits—once more, he cursed Bhrett.

_Once more_, he thought, annoyance running strong within every vein of his being—_once more_ he'd have to tabulate the total worth of the coins, those _accursed_ coins.

Several hours had passed since they'd emerged from the depths of the ancient tunnels. Bhrett had been right to enter the depths; there were riches untold within the tombs they had discovered. Gold, and silver, gems and jewels; and those were but the least valuable of what they had found. The armor of the ancients, gilded and gem-encrusted, bearing crests of protective magical runes; weapons, untainted with the dull sands of time, they glimmered in the light of torches and candles—and other such trinkets that were made of gold and platinum, jewelry, silverwear, pure gold plates, and velvet-lined chests of a dark and rich copper. They had amassed the riches worthy of kings—all in a day's worth of grave-robbing.

They were set to total the worth of their lootings. Having no paper, no quill, and no ink with which to record the numbers, it became painfully evident that they were to count using that which was most basic to all humans. The brain.

Mental calculations.

It shamed the druid somewhat to discover the mathematical genius of his captors. Perhaps they were adept at mental calculations through practice, and perhaps they were adequately gifted in mathematics—but they were, none of them, coming upon such trouble with tabulations, as he was. The massive piles of gold set before them, no doubt, added to their enthusiasm. For one who did not care for such things, it was but a nuinsance.

Scowling, he reached forward to grasp, loosely, a handful of coins. Golden rain dribbled onto his lap, spilling into the sand about his legs as he lifted a single golden piece to eye level.

The mark of the supreme sovereign family of Schezirith—the Iristraizan coat of arms. The coins were all and the same, minted under the rule of the eighth Calaiph of Schezirith, Supreme Sovereign Hamod Iristraizan.

The last of the Schezirith Calaiphs. There were none to succeed him, and none left to rule. Schezirith was ruin, now.

"You are not pleased with our findings."

He grunted. Arched his shoulders to loosen the muscles of his back. Then, carelessly tossing the coins within the palm of his hand into the pile once more, turned to face the other. The sole architect of the looters' plans, and the leader of his captors.

"No, Bhrett, I'm not pleased with your findings. Mostly because they're not findings so much as they're others' treasures." Saul muttered. "What do you want?"

"To talk. You are obviously angry at something." Something of a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. Bhrett was obviously amused. "And that something is obviously your disposition—us, that is."

Saul straightened slightly in his seat. He hoped the sarcasm was evident in the tone of his voice. "You're very perceptive."

Bhrett released a quick and soft 'ha', then shook his head. "We are not your enemies."

"Of course not. You merely threaten my friends, hold us all captive, and force me to partake in your morally corrupt methods of raiding tombs."

Bhrett arched an eyebrow, now—then grinned. "I mean besides that. But you are obviously not inclined to share."

"With you?" Saul allowed himself a moment's worth of a grim chuckle—then lifted his eyes to Bhrett's. Held his gaze for several long seconds. Then turned away. "Not in a million years. Now go away so I can get to work."

The other merely laughed, tossing the end of his turban over his shoulder as he strode away. "As you wish."

_And stay away._

Saul bit his tongue, hard, his brow furrowed in irritation—then winced as the winds arose about him, bringing sand and cold air to his eyes. Grimly, he noted that the eclipse was yet to end.

_Do eclipses last that long? _

Shrugging anxiety from his mind, he lowered himself onto the sand, crossing his legs beneath him as he did. The vastness of the piles surrounding him made him feel somewhat dwarfed in comparison; though they _did_ offer some form of protection against the rising sands. Still, regardless, he found himself squinting, even as he picked up a gem-encrusted tray of pure gold.

It was heavy, but he had expected as such. It was not uncommon for the noblemen of Schezirith to demand upon such silverware.

It was not until upon closer inspection that he'd discovered the etchings upon the center of the tray.

_Not_ a tray. A tablet.

He hadn't expected _that_.

Turning around, he studied his surroundings—he was sure Bhrett would not appreciate his dallying with poetry at present—then shifted his attention once more towards the golden tablet.

_From the Writings of Khabul ad' Ranghid:_

_That deep within the golden shores of Aranoch_

_and beyond the borders of the glimmering Schezirith_

_rests a valley of many ancient names._

_It is known to some as Ha'Krishtakh, and to some as Nu'Sarpernn,_

_but its true name reminds hidden as deepest of secrets are._

_For within chasms clothed in midnight darkness,_

_there lies the secret of ancients long lost_

_and long sought after by all;_

_Those who triumph shall find their dues,_

_and shall in golden light be bathed._

Chasms. Midnight. Darkness. Light. The words jumped at the druid as answers to a riddle hitherto unsolved. It took but a second for all to become clear to him.

Ha'Krishtakh and Nu'Sarpernn.

He frowned. The words were unfamiliar to him. Then, in a single, fluid motion, pushed himself to his feet and strode to the center of the group, where the bandits—four, and then Bhrett—had formed a ring. He was paid no attention as he sat—but that was quite easily remedied.

"Which direction does one travel to arrive upon Ha'Krishtakh?" He leaned towards the man at his side—Kamaran.

His question was met with mild curiousity. "Southeast. Why do you ask?"

"Is there a temple, or a tomb within the valley?"

"I wouldn't know. I haven't traveled that far into the desert." A pause, accentuated with the faintest of frowns. "What's that you're holding?"

Saul blinked—then glanced down towards the tablet clutched, still, within his hand. "It speaks of triumph and golden light beneath the desert sands." The gleam of greed within Kamaran's eyes was enough to assure him of his victory; half the battle was won.

"Ha'Krishtakh is cursed. We will not travel there." Bhrett's voice was resolute, eyes stern as he held Kamaran's gaze.

"We braved Schezirith's insides, did we not?" Kamaran was adamant. "If we have traveled this far, we may as well finish Ha'Krishtakh off."

"We knew what evils lay beneath Schezirith. I have no knowledge of Ha'Krishtakh." Bhrett resisted. "It is too dangerous a journey."

For several short seconds, Kamaran looked as if he would protest; but slowly allowed his mouth to fall shut.

"Well, then. It has been decided. We shall abandon Ha'Krishtakh." It was his moment to speak, the druid decided. _It was now, or never._ "A pity. I should have dearly loved to see what ad' Ranghid meant by 'golden light'."

"Let us take a vote." It was one of the younger men, Sarin, who spoke up now. "I wish to see Ha'Krishtakh."

Saul glanced aside towards Bhrett. Blinked as Kamaran, too, voiced his choice. Then crossed his arms, knowing just then, and not caring in the least that his face bore traces of smugness as the other two called their sides.

Four votes to one.

Victory.

* * *

It was dark, still. Araeya had little doubt that more than eight hours had elapsed since Saul had set out with Bhrett and his men. Seven since the eclipse had begun.

"This is not a natural eclipse." Cordelia muttered. Her voice was low, curt. She had obviously not forgotten their discussion from before—and very clearly, still disapproved of the amazon's methods.

Araeya could not help but to chuckle, despite herself. The eclipse was, however odd, the least of their worries. "I'm ready."

Cordelia stiffened. She sounded anxious, now. "Aya, there has _got_ to be another way to get around this."

She chuckled again. "One day, little princess, you will come to realise that your greatest asset as a woman is your body and your charm. When you think of another plan, we'll try that—but for now, this is as good as it gets."

The sorceress hesitated, the tenseness of her posture dissipating slowly into a slouch. Then, her voice low, "…alright, but you had better not go to far with this."

"I live on the edge." Araeya grinned. She ignored her companion's exasperated sigh. Her sights were set; her target was clear. Taking a deep breath, she shut her eyes, steeling herself—then tossed her hair over her shoulder, and whistled loudly across the encampment. "Oi!"

"Oi?" Cordelia hissed, fingers tensing against the amazon's as she did. "_Oi?_ How on earth is that alluring in the very least?"

She grunted, poking the sorceress hard in the palm of her hand. They had caught the attention of their watchman—the stout one from before. Even as he made his way towards them, barbed club in hand, she exhaled deeply, tossing her hair once more, before looking up to face him.

Up close, he was not as hideous as she had supposed him to be. He was short, it was true, but no shorter than her, and the bulk of his would-be fat was, in fact, muscle. His face was not entirely unnatractive; he had eyes of deep aqua, and his chin was lightly stubbled in dark brown. If she were drunk, Araeya thought, grimly amused, she might have mistaken him for Meshif.

"What?" His voice was gruff as he grunted.

She kept her eyes upon his, deliberately taking her time; then arched her shoulders back, as though attempting to stretch. "I know it must be such a bother." She begun. It was all she could do to keep her voice a low, soft purr. "But could you please bring us some water? I'm a little parched."

He gave her a look, but was quick to comply—it was but half a minute later when he returned bearing a crystal flagon.

"How…?" She began, slanting her eyes back to indicate her bound wrists. The answer was obvious to her—he would not untie her.

True to her predictions, he smirked—then lifted the flagon. "I pour, you drink."

Perfect.

She shrugged her shoulders, curling her lips in what she knew to be a helplessly resigned smile. Arched her spine and tilted her head back to allow him a glimpse of her slender neck. And, eyes upon his, parted her lips and held them, waiting.

The water was cool, and she was grateful for it. Nonetheless, he was watching her—and she could see a wild sort of frenzy in his eyes. Swallowing her final gulp, she clamped her lips firmly shut—then turned away ever so slightly, so that the water began to cascade along the side of her jaw, down along her neck and into the curve of her bosom. When he stopped, she turned to face him, her breathing harsh. Again, she saw the familiar gleam in his eyes.

She flashed him a winning smile.

His face was but inches from hers as the flagon slipped from his fingers. It smashed against a protruding sandstone—yet he was deaf to it. He leaned into the amazon, lifting a hand to cup the side of her head, fingers entwined within her hair as he pressed his lips to her ear.

"You're beautiful." He murmured, and his breath tickled her jaw. "…but I'm _not_ loosening those ropes, no matter how many times you try to trick me into it."

She stiffened. Straightened as he pulled back, scowling into his face as he smirked into hers—then released an exasperated 'ugh!' as he turned from them, cloak swishing in his wake.

And as he walked away, Cordelia muttered, "So, I guess _he_ doesn't think with his phallus?"

"Shut up."

* * *

It was dark. The only light within the darkness was coming from the pale stone slab set into the very center of cavern—a ceremonial altar, upon which lay heaps of burnt offerings; but not offerings as the world of men knew. There was a heart—of human origin—set upon a crystal platter, surrounded in a sea of rotting entrails. Lungs and a spleen, burnt charcoal black. A single singed eyeball, dangling over the edge of the altar by the thread of a single blood-slicked artery. Phials of blood lined the edges of the altar, casting shadows of crimson death over the relative pallor of the stone.

They had fought bravely. Died bravely.

There was no treasure. That, in and of itself, had been evident to the druid from the very beginning. Now, staring into the widened eyes of the four—the four who had so easily trusted to the scent of gold, the four who now lay dead in various corners of the cavern, he felt a pang of sympathy, and of guilt.

_  
They had not known any better._

Nonetheless, the enemy—the fabled clawed demon-vipers—were defeated.

And then there were two.

He glanced aside towards Bhrett, who stood, motionless, over the corpse of his last kill, the ebony blood tainting his sword, still. He had suffered some wounds, but he would live. His eyes were alert—tense. When he spoke, it was in an oddly-controlled voice, though there were obvious traces of bitterness in the rise and fall of his inflections. "I don't see your 'golden rain'."

Saul found himself wishing Bhrett were silent at present. The guilt continued to gnaw at his insides. Clutching his staff, he limped to the center of the cavern, brows knitted as he approached the foul arrangement upon the stone altar. He could feel the warmth of flowing blood along the side of his right calf, where a viper's tooth had pierced his flesh—but he very much doubted that it was venomous. Gritting his teeth, he shifted his focus from the throbbing aches of the rest of his body to the horrors of gore that were set before his very eyes.

It was then that he'd noticed the keystone.

Twisted of gold and platinum into a tornado-shaped swirl, the keystone stood upright, protruding its stony pouch at the front of the altar. Minute dots of ivory pearls, set within thin wires were twisted about the main swirls, gleaming slightly in the overcast lights.

Saul frowned. It was all he could do to keep himself from retching; the stench was beginning to get to him.

Gritting his teeth, he reached downwards, fingers closing upon the keystone. Bhrett had come up to him; he eyed the keystone, ascertaining its worth—and then scoffed, turning away once more.

"We came all the way for _that?_" He hissed, eyes blazing. "You can keep it—remind you of those who died under your advice."

Saul ignored him. Shut his eyes and took several long, deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself.

Then, his heart thumping within his throat, wrenched the keystone from its womb.

For a moment, the world went still—and then cavern erupted in the defeaning roar of collapsing rocks. The temple had begun to crumble; its masters were vanquished, sent into the pits of hell from which they were spawned. A great boulder set directly above the altar began to shake; and Saul had but seconds to leap back into a corner, dragging Bhrett with him, the keystone within the palm of his hand, before it moaned its last, disengaging itself from the holds of its foundations.

It came into contact with the altar with a sickening crunch, bringing silence in its wake.

And then, through the cracks of stone and rubble—the remains of the ruined temple up above them, the sun, once more, began to shine.

* * *

The plan had failed.

Cordelia was not much surprised at the fact—she had never thought to use her charms in such a manner as was displayed by the amazon. Indeed, Araeya's almost obscene demonstration of sexual temptation had brought a heated flush into her cheeks, that she suspected had absolutely nothing to do with the warmth of the desert winds. Yet, loathe as she was to admit it, it _had_ stirred something within the vestiges of her being.

Was it _lust_?

She watched as the guard strode away. If it were lust, it was not for _him_.

Beside her, Araeya was silent—whether it was from weariness, or from some other deeper emotion, she could not tell; nor had she the strength left within her to attempt to figure it out. Instead, she stretched against her restraints, wincing as the ropes began to gnaw at the raw skin of her wrists.

Only when she was certain that they were far from earshot did she make to nudge the amazon. "Aya."

Araeya's response was to grunt.

"…did you know that shattered crystal—"

The amazon cut her off. "—is perfect for severing ropes. I know."

She could not help but smile in response. "I suppose your little act wasn't a complete waste after all."

Araeya was silent for the briefest of moments—then the ropes began to tighten, as though they were being tugged at. "No. Not a complete waste." She muttered, sliding a shard of crystal into the sorceress's hands. "Get to work."

Cordelia shut her eyes, smirking—then bowed her head slightly, her hair falling forward to hide her face from view. She could feel the amazon working in silence beside her, just as she could feel the slow loosening of her ropes as the threads began to sever. One of the men gave a loud, harsh cough—she paused, going entirely still, but they had noticed nothing. Gritting her teeth, she re-adjusted her grip of the shard, wincing as it cut into the palm of her hand, drawing blood—but she would not give in. They were too close to escape.

Before she knew it, the ropes had fallen away. She flexed her fingers. Warm blood trickled along the index finger of her right hand into the sand, dyeing the golden grains crimson. She glanced aside towards Araeya, hands held, still, behind her back. They would give nothing away.

The amazon, too, was free. She smirked; then slanted her gaze towards the man who had rejected her.

Her eyes were narrowed, though she smiled, as she whispered—"_He_ is mine."

* * *

They were silent as they crossed the desert sands of Aranoch. The sun had long since begun to disappear into the horizon, a testament to the length their day had spanned—it was twilight. For his part, Saul was exhausted, desiring nothing short of sleep, but knowing it was not possible. His leg had ceased to bleed; he had, upon leaving the ruined temple, ripped several shreds off his tunic to wind around the wound. Nonetheless, bloodloss and fatigue did not mix well, by his count.

He was hungry, thirsty, and tired.

Beyond physical needs, however, he was lonely.

Lonely and almost entirely engulfed in guilt.

He looked aside towards Bhrett—but the other was steadfast, his eyes set straight ahead in resolute determination.

On, and on they rode, their cart jolting every once in a while against rubble and rocks. Ceres was nowhere to be seen—but that, in and of itself, was re-assuring of the fact that she had, for once, deigned to listen to him. For a moment or two, he wondered at her current disposition—but was quickly brought back to reality as the cart-horse began to slow.

"Get the others and tell them to pack up." Bhrett's voice was low as he spoke. He sounded wearied—though there were the faintest traces of bitterness in the tone of his voice.

He hadn't noticed that they had arrived.

His first thought was to run for Cordelia, to take her in his arms and to ensure that she was well.

At present, he knew—_he_ needed the warmth of her arms more than she needed the strength of his.

There was no sign of them. The tree to which they had been bound stood on its own, surrounded by several lengths of thick rope. He noted the roughened edges of the fibre where it had been hewn away—then panicked at the sight of the blood-stained shards of crystal.

They were gone.

There was a lump in his throat as he turned towards Bhrett. Like him, the bandit held an expression of utmost bewilderment upon his visage. Unlike him, the bandit cared nothing for Cordelia and Araeya.

"They're gone." He croaked.

_Glass. Blood. Is that her blood?_

Bhrett was frowning now. He took a step forward; then drew his scimitar, eyes narrowed as he jerked his head towards the common tent. The lights within were lit. "There's someone in there."

Their arrival was noted.

Bhrett had barely begun to take another step when two heavily armoured figures emerged from within the tent. He frowned; but did not make to move as the two crossed the encampment in favour of their direction.

"The Prince of Lut Gholein sent his men—they took the wenches." The taller of the men was the first to speak, his tone rough. From within the shadows overcast by his full helm, his blue-green eyes were narrowed. He sounded annoyed. "We were outnumbered."

The shorter of the two stepped forward, now, his tone crisp as he spoke. "The Prince's men lurk amongst us, Bhrett. We must move, and move fast."

"Has all been made ready for departure?" Bhrett sheathed his scimitar, the frown never leaving his face.

"Aye."

"Wait." Saul took a step forward, having found his tongue once more. "The prince's men were _here_?"

Somehow, and for some reason, he doubted it. If Jerhyn had sent his men out to seek out the kidnappers of his bride-to-be, he would have sent them out for blood. None would remain.

"Why else would we be leaving?" The shorter of the men snapped, his voice irritable. "Just get on the cart—we need to move." Then he turned his back to the druid and clambered up the cart to his side.

Bhrett, too, was seated—and he scowled as Saul met his eyes. "Get on. I'm not finished with you."

Saul clenched his fists, the thumping in his throat growing heavier by the second. Three to one—the odds of his breaking free were terrible to say the least. Even so, there was still the matter of Cordelia and Araeya to consider; if they were not at camp—if they were not with Jerhyn's men, then his chances of discovering their whereabouts lay with the two guards, who surely would know better than he where they were.

Gritting his teeth, he turned around—then climbed onto the seat of the secondary cart.

They had barely traveled but fifty paces from the encampment, when the sound of angry curses arose within the air. Startled, the druid straightened in his seat—then swung quickly around to discern the source of it. He barely noticed the gradually rising speed of his cart—his eyes were fixed upon the other.

Bhrett lay upon the ground, the sand swirling about his form as he flailed in his attempt at rising. He was cursing—but the person driving the cart upon which he had previously been seated was deaf to him. Then he rolled to his feet, grasping out to take a hold of the cart's edge—and the driver, with a flighty 'ha!', lashed at the horse with the lick of a whip, causing the cart to accelerate.

And as they galloped away into the desert, Saul found himself staring into the laughing faces of the two women—two, who had, minutes ago, been Bhrett's men. Two, who, having thrown aside their turbans and helms, were revealed to be none other than Cordelia and Araeya.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Oh sweet God. It's been quite some time, hasn't it? I'm sorry, guys, for taking so long—but I did say I would never abandon this fic, right? Heh.

My lack of updating has been due to a lot of things happening during my other breaks; grandma passing away (I'm fine, I'm not depressed or anything), exams, lots of art, and whatnot. However, I am on my term break as of now, and I have, as of now, a month or so. Here's hoping I can get a couple more chapters out by then, yes?

Okay, so I'd like to thank **Ophelion**, for always being here for me, and for generally just being awesome.

Thanks also go out to **skopde**, **Luna**, **Fallen Dragonfly**; thanks for sticking with me, guys.

Also, thank you to **Twilight Bunny**, and an especially BIG thank you to **Aiko no Kaze** and **gLassbOy** for the favs and comments!

Thank you also to **Wrynn** for the +fav, and thanks to **Mr. J.L. Rodriguez** for the PM! I'm very glad you're enjoying it!

Note if if I've forgotten you; and look out for the next chapter entitled, "Tears and Duty", where the much-anticipated Saul x Cordelia action FINALLY begins! Until then, keep reading and keep reviewing!


	31. Chapter 30: Tears and Duty

**Chapter 30: Tears and Duty**

* * *

It was cold that night, as it was every other night. The streets were slick from the rare drizzle that had, mere hours ago, made its presence known upon the Jewel City.

Cold, dark, wet.

Saul sat alone upon the dockside steps. Solitude was something to be appreciated at present; their return had been greeted by a tirade of roaring trumpets and elated townsfolk. The sun had risen once more, if only to set.

He watched as the ocean tides swept against the city's cliffside walls. Overhead, somewhere, beyond the borders of his sight, a hawk cried out, its voice echoing shrilly through the relative silence of the night.

And then there was silence once more.

Only at the muffled sound of soft-slippered feet upon stone did he shift. The footsteps silenced themselves, and the approaching figure halted, as though considering him.

He knew very well who it was.

Cordelia was quiet as she sank onto the steps beside him. One hand came to rest upon the ground between them, and for a moment or two, he considered reaching for it.

"Cold night." She muttered.

Saul managed a wry smile. "Quite." He agreed, mildly.

"Did you—?" She finished with a rather obscure gesture; yet he caught the meaning of her words.

"Yes. Fara helped me. I am better now." He paused, turning to study her briefly. Face, enshrouded within wisps hair that had escaped her loose and thick braid. Shoulders, bare beneath the straps of her loose and airy dress. Arms. Abdomen. Feet. No new injuries—no new scars. "You are well, also, I trust?"

"Atma." Cordelia offered, as if the name were answer enough.

He nodded once. The awkwardness was beginning to settle; he could feel it, and he was sure she felt the same. "So." He began.

"So." She echoed.

"Good weather today." Saul cleared his throat quietly. Inwardly, he cursed himself—to discuss the weather, of all things, was something he had never had to resort to.

She chuckled faintly, as though she, too, had noticed this lack of conversation between them. "We didn't use to talk about the weather all the time, you know. Now it seems it is all we speak of."

At the sound of her laugh, he relaxed. He found himself smiling, in spite of himself. "We haven't had time to discuss anything else."

"We have time now. So tell me, how _are_ you?"

He took a moment to think, then rolled his shoulders in a brisk shrug. "I'm good. We won a big battle today, and came back wealthier than we were when we left."

"Oh, yes. Found anything interesting in your spoils?" Cordelia turned towards him, arching a quizzical, crimson brow. She was grinning now. "You are a grave-robber now, eh."

He laughed. "Some interesting weapons, which I should be glad to test out. Some jewels, some gems, all of which can be sold. Some chests of coin which I am sure will come in handy one of these days."

"What on earth would you possibly buy with so much gold?" She cocked her head slightly.

Saul shrugged again. "I wasn't planning on using my share any time soon. You should come by the inn sometime, collect your share of it."

Cordelia thinned her lips briefly, though she looked amused, if anything. "What on earth would _I_ possibly buy with so much gold?"

"Oh, many things. A new gown or two, some jewelry, I'm sure you'll think of something. Perhaps for your wedding—"

He kicked himself. Spoken without thought.

"Hm." She supplied, carelessly, as though she had not heard him. Perhaps she was pretending.

"…are you fine with this?" Saul braved, quietly. "…be honest. If you are, this is the last you will hear of it from me. Are you really, truly, willing to accept Jerhyn's hand?"

She turned to face him squarely, her eyes upon his. For a moment or two, she was merely silent, her posture rigidly upright as she regarded him. Her voice was firm and steady as she spoke. "I'm fine with this."

He nodded once, perhaps with more conviction than he would have believed himself to possess at present. "Then I wish you every happiness, Cordelia."

Cordelia merely gave him a sparse smile. He thought he could see the faint twitching of her lip as she brushed her crimson braid aside over her shoulder. The golden ribbons that were woven into the braid glinted, briefly, in the moonlight.

And then, quite without warning, she leaned over, the tip of her nose brushing against his. Her lips grazed his own—tenderly, at first, as though she were afraid.

Then harder, closer, she clung onto him, kissing him deeply, whilst her hands found their way to the back of his head, fingers tangling within locks of his hair.

Her cheeks were flushed as she pulled away. Her lashes trembled upon her cheek; her eyes were shut. Saul found himself speechless, though it lasted but a second. Yet when he opened his mouth to speak, she lifted a finger, pressing it quickly against his lips to silence him. Blue fell upon grey as she met his gaze.

"That." She murmured, smiling weakly. "That will always be yours, and yours, alone. I have to do what duty calls me to do, Saul. I am going to marry Jerhyn, and I'm going to give him me, my whole self. But I couldn't do it without telling you, first—the answer to your question, the one you asked of me in the desert—"

_Would you have loved me in different circumstances? If you were free, Cordelia, could you have loved me?_

He frowned a little, but she shook her head, as though to silence him once more. "Yes. That is my answer."

She pulled her hand from his lips, but he caught her fingers to kiss them, however briefly. Her hand trembled just a touch, though she was smiling, still. Even as she pushed herself to her feet, he felt the lump within his throat go colder. She took some steps from him, sank into a graceful court-curtsey.

Her voice and demeanor held within it an odd sort of finality—the beginning, yet the end. "Good-night, Saul."

Then she turned, and, skirts drifting in her wake, strode away into the night.

It was several long moments before Saul could find the will to move. His legs were numb from the cold, as were his hands, but he could not care.

_She loves me._

It took some time for this new concept to make sense. When it did, however, he found he was not alone—he could not ponder it further. Meshif stoof at the deck of his ship, his gaze affixed upon the streets, where Saul could just barely make out the blurred outline of a woman in stride. The glint of platinum hair, the messy, windswept silhouette of the rough-hewn locks, were evidence enough as to who she was.

Meshif turned towards him, a brief smile touching his lips beneath the dark hairs of his beard. He inclined his head.

Saul sighed deeply. "You too?" He mouthed—then signed the words, motioning carelessly towards where the amazon had disappeared.

He could have sworn that the smallest traces of amusement had made its way into Meshif's face. But the Captain simply nodded; and in several short steps, came to rest upon ground beside him. "Me, too."

_Love is pain._

Saul glanced aside towards Meshif, but the other was silent, deep in solemn thought. Overhead, the hawk cried out once more. This time, he saw the flash of outstretched wings, and the familiar rustling of feathers as clawed feet landed upon the ground beside him.

_Love is pain, and you, druid, are doomed to suffer it forever._ She offered, blandly.

Even as he reached to stroke the top of the bird's head, Saul found himself smiling. She rustled her feathers again, then nipped affectionately at his fingers.

_Thanks, Ceres. Much appreciated._

_

* * *

_

It was near noon, the following day, when Jerhyn came for her. The sun, newly restored to his throne of glory at the center of the sky blazed bright, and many a tavern-patron complained of the heat. They were seated within the narrow deck that encased their building; Atma, leaning into an old rattan armchair with Kei enclosed within her arms, and Mia, who ran to and fro in spirited persuit of a flightless pigeon.

And then her own person, who sat, rigid, amongst the family; an outsider, yet _not_ an outsider.

Cordelia watched, in silence, as Mia ran, first, this way, and then that. The child was young, still—so young, yet so touched, so broken by the war. Its effects were evident in the slight slump of her rounded, childlike shoulders; the way she cocked her head, her eyes soft, silent, and sad, whenever they fell upon the body that held what remained of her brother and playmate. The way she kissed his cheek, and, with stubby little fingers, stroked at his forehead whilst their mother sang songs of happier days.

The sight of such would have broken the heart of any who cared to look. Few cared to look any more.

Rather, few could _bear_ to look.

Jerhyn was silent as he approached. His own gaze traveled first from Cordelia—to whom he dipped his head gently—and then towards Atma. To her, he smiled, a bare and solemn thing. His gaze lingered but seconds upon Kei, but he said nothing to acknowledge that he had noticed the boy's lacklustre appearance.

"Jerhyn." Cordelia inclined her head ever so slightly in a manner of greeting. "Do you not hold council today?"

The prince shook his head, though he did not respond with any great urgency. "We do." He said, slowly. "I came to fetch you. There have been some recent developments in your… absence."

Cordelia pursed her lips. She knew that tone, and she knew the look in his eyes. Bitterness. Anxiety. Wariness. All of which had melded to form some new, unnamed emotion. But any fool could tell that he held, still, disapproval, if not contempt, against her for having left against his request.

For her part, she realised, she _did_ feel guilt for having caused him to worry.

"New developments?" She said, very carefully schooling her expression and tone into one of complete neutrality. "What nature of new developments do you speak of?"

He considered her briefly, as though attempting to gauge her intentions. "Drognan has been working hard at his research as of late. He believes that he has discovered something that will enable us to see, perhaps, the end of this darkness. If his hypothesis is correct, we may well be on our way to destroying this darkness. It is for this very reason that I have summoned the court to council."

"I see." Cordelia said, slowly. "And the court is summoned to council at which hour?"

"This coming one. If you will be so kind as to accompany me, Cordelia, I should be glad to escort you." Jerhyn extended his arm in one practiced gesture; she noted, grimly, that he did not smile in the slightest.

Nodding once, she took his hand, and, waving to bid silent farewells to Atma and the children, descended tavern-deck stairs to walk the streets.

The journey to the palace was but a 10-minute stroll, but it felt ages longer. Townsfolk paused to bow and curtsey as they passed, and customary greetings were exchanged with lesser barons, who, being among those not summoned to council, felt it their need to greet their prince as he passed their homes. Jerhyn spoke little, save to enquire upon her health and that of Atma and the children, and there hung an air of awkwardness between the two.

Cordelia found herself grateful beyond relief when at last they found themselves before the palace. The guard, silent and stony-faced, ushered them in, and, dutiful Prince and bethrothed that he was, Jerhyn offered his hand.

Wordlessly, she took it, and together, they entered into the council hall.

The dignitaries were seated around a great oval table—it took up near half of the hall, set, as it was, into the very center—all bore traces of grim defeat within their worry-lined faces. All were prepared for the worst. Some exchanged anxious glances, whilst others kept their eyes affixed upon the prince.

Jerhyn led the way to the seat of honour at the front of the table. She bit her lip as he gestured her into a high chair, carved to match his own, and polished the same brown hue. It was set at his right hand—yet Cordelia could not help but notice that it had been pushed further back. Chiding herself silently, she sank onto the offered seat, and felt her pride burn.

"Well then. Now that we are all here, shall we begin by gathering what courage we shall need to weather the coming storm?"

A few nervous chuckles sounded within the hall. Jerhyn paused a moment, looking first to his left, and then to his right, his expression stern, yet proud.

"Not yet?" He asked, simply—silence followed in the wake of his words—then he nodded, and, clasping his hands together, took his seat. "I hereby call this meeting to order. Let us begin. Drognan?"

Cordelia leaned into the cushioned back of her chair as Drognan rose to his feet. The men who were seated closest to Jerhyn were unknown to her, save but a few. Strong-featured Greiz Ulthar, whom she had heard of from Atma, mercenary leader that he was. Yahjrein Kamma, grey-bearded and wise, the secretary of state. He had served Jerhyn's father long before the prince had been born. Tall and handsome Baridth Azarni, young, though vastly experienced in matters of war, the Lut Gholein General. Valiff, Freiya, Jaridda—the Najta triplets, born to the sister of Lut Gholein's previous king. Cousins to the current prince, they walked the streets well-respected, for few could claim superiority over them for knowledge in the art of tactical war. Then there was the dark-haired head of the treasury officials, Durmach Boissevant, who possessed sharp eyes to match an equally sharp tongue.

Further along the table, the lesser dignitaries held reverent silences. Drognan cleared his throat whilst wrinkled hands unravelled the thick vellum scroll set before him.

He had not yet begun to speak, however, when the doors were once again flung open. Cordelia thought the guard looked distinctly ruffled, and bit back a short laugh as Deckard Cain hobbled into the hall, the sound of his walking-stick against the marble-tiled floors resounding within the alcoved walls. Behind him strode Saul and Araeya. Both inclined their heads respectfully towards Jerhyn as they entered, though she thought she saw the former's eyes flicker towards her for the briefest of moments.

She glanced away; the memory of their previous encounter stung at her.

If he was aware of it, Jerhyn did not show his displeasure; he simply lifted a casual hand, and motioned for the three to join them at the table. Only when all were seated did he speak again. "Drognan, if you please."

The elder magus nodded. "Well, then." His words were crisp, yet slowly spoken, as if he were choosing his words carefully. "For the benefit of our foreign companions, I shall begin by reciting some very ancient lore. Those of you who have lived your entire lives here will know them—I must bid you be patient."

A few nods of agreement followed before he spoke once more. "The great magus, Horazon, is not an uncommon name. Even now, so many years since his disappearance into sand and shadow, we remember the things he is said to have studied. We remember the age-old whispers describing public demonstrations of demons enslaved, unspeakable evils bent to his will. We recognise ideas and theories as are born from his writings, and we caution ourselves against seeking that which he sought—dominion over the minions of hell." Here, he paused, but only briefly, whilst his gaze traveling across his gathered company. "He was, of course, driven from the city for the darkness of his deeds and the filth of his studies. It is said that he had then built a sanctuary within which he could study in peace. Within this sanctuary, his gaze could travel between realms; he could look into our world, and at the same time, peek into the hellgrounds. This realm of his, this sanctuary, I believe, is a bridge between the hellgrounds and our own world."

"He kept demons as slaves. For a long time, he was able to contain them, but his strength soon weakened. I believe his demons regained control of their own minds and limbs, and only the Gods can know what they would have done to him. If, indeed, his Arcane Sanctuary exists, it is likely overrun by hellspawn, but I have…" Drognan paused once more, looking towards Jerhyn as he did. The prince nodded, once, and signalled for him to continue. "…I have reason to believe that the Arcane Sanctuary _does_ exist. It has been many ages since this fact was disputed, and it is now mostly accepted as a myth, a womens' tale to remind us all to never chase such evil as Horazon did. However, recent developments…"

Here, he trailed off, his eyes turning once more towards Jerhyn. This time, the prince, taking his cue, spoke. "There are scrolls and writings within the palace walls that I have… recently, found the need to peruse. I discovered some new information, and, knowing myself less wise than Drognan, shared them with him. Together, we have come to conclude that Horazon's Arcane Sanctuary, if, indeed, it exists, is built directly beneath the foundations of this city."

"Horazon studied, also, the basis of the magics that were used to bind the Lord of Destruction, Baal, to the magus Tal Rasha. Together, they are hidden away deep within the desert in an eternal struggle; Baal, to gain his freedom, and Tal Rasha, to keep him from it. You will all remember the wanderer who passed our city not too long ago—I regret what I must say, that—" The prince paused, then glanced about the room. "I believe he is Diablo, himself. The Lord of Terror walks the Sanctuary to free his brother."

Someone released a low and long whistle; then the dignitaries all began to speak at the same time. It did not matter if the words of their cries went unheard; it was as if they were unified in simply making chaos. Some proclaimed their prince's belief to be folly. Others declared madness was at work. Yet even more cursed the name of Horazon and called to the Gods. Surrounded by such behaviour, Cordelia watched, and saw only that Saul was unperturbed. He remained seated, one slender eyebrow arched—was it in disgust, or amusement?—as he watched the men about him. Araeya, similarly, was silent, though she looked rather annoyed.

"Silence!"

The hall went quiet. All eyes shifted to rest upon the secretary of state. Yahjrein stood. Despite the limitations of his age, his voice was strong, and his countenance demanded deference. "Do you have no respect for your prince? No respect for the state of the city? If you refuse to believe, if you are simply too scared to _want_ to believe that this great evil is knocking at your door, then by all means, you are welcome to leave."

A few rose to their feet, and then some more. In single file, silent as sullen children in disgrace, they exited.

"Better." Yahjrein grunted, then sank back into his chair.

Cordelia took a quick count in her head. Those who had remained were few—Yahjrein and Greiz, Baridth, the Triplets, Durmach, and Drognan. There were few others, five, who had, she recalled, remained seated in grim, yet determined silence throughout the chaos. Saul, also, remained, as did Araeya and Deckard Cain.

"Well, then." Jerhyn remarked, dryly. "That was not unexpected. Those of you who remain, remain so for loyalty to your city. For that, I thank you."

"Rather, our mother would have our heads if we abandoned you in your time of need." Freiya supplied good-naturedly. His brothers laughed, and nodded their agreement.

"I thank my aunt, then." Jerhyn gave them a bare smile, then nodded once more. "It is of utmost importance, however, that we now decide our next course of action. I have…" He paused. The coming words seemed difficult for him to speak, but he gripped the edges of the table, hard, and continued. "There has, as of late, been much activity within the lower levels of the palace. We thought, at first, that demons from the sewers may have tunneled through the sands to break into the city. But we have recently discovered otherwise—there is no tunnel connecting the underground palace rooms and the sewers. We have checked, and checked again. I can only conclude that there is a direct entrance into some hellspawn realm deep within the cellars. It may, or may not be the Arcane Sanctuary. If it is so, we shall likely find more information on the whereabouts of Tal Rasha's tomb within." Here, he paused again. "We can only hope we find it before Diablo does."

Cordelia bit her lip as she looked towards the others. Yahjrein drummed time-roughened fingertips upon the table, whilst Baridth let out a long and low breath. The triplets simply glanced between themselves. Durmach kept both eyes affixed upon the prince, though he said nothing, and made no movement beyond the slight flaring of his nostrils. Further along the table, Saul cleared his throat, then looked away. She thought she could hear the quiet, yet slightly disgruntled muttering of a quick "Oi."

Jerhyn held his stance. "I vote to gather a team of fighters. We must delve into the palace cellars if we are to make safe our city. What men we have are few, and they are battle-weary. Over eight-tenths of Baridth's men are out in the desert outposts, and we are in dire need of seasoned warriors. I ask this of you because you are people of the Sanctuary—all of you, and even if Lut Gholein is not your world, it is a _part_ of your world." Here, he looked towards Saul and Araeya. "If it would please you to join in our battle, it shall please me, also."

Araeya released a loud and somewhat brusque snort. "I, of course, am ready. But what of you men of Lut Gholein? Your city requires your service; do you not offer yourselves?"

"My men and I, at least, are paid for it," Greiz shrugged one large shoulder, his posture heavy. "I will obey orders, and that is all."

"We shall save this city from ruin, or die defending it," Baridth added. Cordelia noted the lightness of his tone; here was a man who had long since, despite his young years, made peace with the frailty of human life. "I shall assemble a team of elites, and we will storm the cellars. If all goes well, we should be able to clear it out in a day."

Jerhyn nodded. "That is well. The sooner we do this, the better."

Baridth quirked a half-smile. "Tomorrow."

"Good," The prince said. His manner, now, was brisk. There was, after all, much to be done. "Greiz, keep your men as they are. Protect the city and the people, but keep a group near the palace in case all goes badly. Baridth, choose your men wisely; I should think a group of eight, including our good friends here, should be enough. The rest are to remain in the desert outposts, to keep the demons at bay."

"What of us?" Freiya flexed his fingers carefully. "We three cannot sit motionless whilst good men battle for the safety of our city."

Valiff nodded his agreement. "It would be unfeeling, and heartless of us."

"Not to mention vastly unpatriotic," Jaridda added. "The people will talk, and we shall be laughed out of town. I demand some occupation, Jerhyn."

The prince laughed, however short-lived it was. "Our men in the desert need leaders. The dunes are not yet completely cleared of hellspawn, and we must ensure that they are safe for travel, if there comes a need for evacuation. Valiff, you must ride to the Lost City of Schezirith. The men have set up camp in the Valley of Snakes; you are to lead them. Remain in the area, and keep it clear of demons. When you no longer find hellspawn roaming the sands, and confirm it is so for three days, pack up camp, and return to the city. Take care to check the ancient tunnels beneath Schezirith. When you are certain they are clear, bolt the entrances, and hide them. And collapse the entrance into the Claw Vipers' temple. No one need ever venture in there, again."

Valiff nodded smartly. "And my brothers?"

"Freiya, you must keep the Far Oasis of Khamundarabdi clear. There may or may not be a band of grave-robbers out there; I am told the leader of one such band went free. If you find him, you are to apprehend him, but do not hurt him otherwise. He shall face justice in ways that are not his death-and-die. Jaridda, the Dry Hills are yours to make safe. Check the mausoleum, the Halls of the Dead, and be sure to disturb no more than is absolutely necessary. The good people resting within that tomb have been kept awake in their death long enough."

The triplets nodded in unison even as Jerhyn shifted his gaze towards Saul. For a moment or two, there was silence in the hall. They looked one another in the eye, as though they were fighters in a ring, enemies in opposing sides of a battlefield, each daring the other to make the first move.

Then Saul, tone dry and posture slackened, muttered his inclusion. "I'll go with Baridth and Araeya."

Cordelia, fingers gripping the arms of her chair hard, felt her throat go dry. Moments later, she heard herself say, "I will go, also. You will have need of a mage; there are things in the netherrealms that even the hardiest of metals cannot touch."

Jerhyn took his time to respond. He did not turn to gaze at her, nor did his voice change in the least. "You must not, Cordelia. Indeed, you cannot."

She arched an eyebrow, though she held her silence at present. The others, no doubt sensing the coming of a storm, had begun to rise, and were slowly filing out of the chamber. The five, who had hitherto been silent, exited, almost unnoticed. They were followed closely by Durmach and Greiz, the triplets, and Baridth. Yahjrein, loyal as always to his sovereign, ushered Deckard Cain from the chamber.

And even as Saul made to exit at Araeya's heels, Cordelia thought she saw him shake his head, ever so gently, towards her.

And then they were alone.

Cordelia watched as the heavy double doors swung slowly into position, then cleared her throat as they clicked shut. "And why, may I ask, must I stay?"

Jerhyn straightened, then turned to meet her gaze. His eyes were narrowed, and his voice crisp as he spoke. "Because it is your duty to remain by my side, safe and sound."

Cordelia counted to ten before responding; she did not quite trust herself to speak without calming her senses, first. "And what good is that if the city is lost? Think, Jerhyn, _think_. What good will I be by your side then?"

"You will be safe, nonetheless, and your mother and father will be glad to hear of it."

"Heaven forbid they believe I am meek enough to sit and wait when there are people fighting a war around me. They taught me better than that, they _know_ me better than that," Cordelia rose to her feet, then took a step forward, so that she could look the prince in the eye. "Please, Jerhyn. Let me help."

Jerhyn considered her briefly. His gaze was searching, cold, even. "No." His answer was curt; clearly, he did not need much thought to decide upon the subject. "You are to be a princess of Lut Gholein. Queen, someday, if we all live that long. You should start behaving like one."

"Has it ever occurred to you, that maybe, just naybe, I don't want to be one?" The words escaped her mouth long before she found the will to stop herself; they startled even her own person. But the damage was done.

"Well, then." Jerhyn said, when he found his voice several long seconds' worth of silence, later. "I suppose the both of us will have to become accustomed to the concept of compromise."

Cordelia forced herself to bite back a scoff, as well as the words that were lingering upon the tip of her tongue—and it was just as well. For, just then, the double doors into the chamber swung open once more, and she found herself turning to face the sight of her family; Oberon the Medjai, Arlene the Seer. Asha, Medjai de asurthi-aldyn, and Estarra, Medjai de bayu-aldyn.

"It appears I have come not a moment too soon," Oberon observed, mildly. His pale-blue eyes were Cordelia's, though these were narrowed in obvious displeasure. "Greetings."

* * *

**Author's Note:** You may all now throw stones at me, and shout at me for all you're worth. I swear I didn't mean to take that long of a hiatus!

I promise I'm not giving up on this fic, as I've promised time and again, but it was like pulling teeth to get this chapter out. I think, part of it is because I've been very busy with university, and assignments, and generally, a lot of other things involving my social life.

I'm on holiday again, though! But I've got an internship coming up (details as to where pending), and I intend to enjoy it. I'll try to slip in writing time from time to time, so don't forget to check back every once in a while. I've also gotten Diablo II re-installed in my lappie, so there is a high chance I may get more and more motivated to write. Hold steady, and look forward to my next chapter, **"Private Tragedies"**!

Thanks go out to:

**Ophelion**, for putting up with me and my many mood-swings, and for never losing sight of our true goal and vision when it comes to DII story-writing and fan-fic'ing. Thanks a bunch, this one's for you.

**Skopde**, **Fallen Dragonfly**, **Luna**; told you guys I wouldn't ever forget this story. Here's hoping you've enjoyed this chapter!

**Rasbash**, **Ruzio**, **Ablated Crayon**, **mephisteron**, **JupponGatana**, **Twilight Bunny** and **SeltzerBaby**, thanks so much for the support, advice, and ever continuing patience for my chapters! (keep reading!)

To the people who fav'd this fic: **Ruzio**, **Uppgreyyedd**, **Syntium**, **Cinnamon** **Toasties**, **Fallen** **Messiah**, **The** **Runefang**, **Ogoobu**, thanks for it. I don't deserve it, but I appreciate the love!

To the people who fav'd author'd me: **Ruzio**, **Syntium**, **Cinnamon** **Toasties**, thanks again!

And to the rest of you who alert'd this fic; **Ruzio**, **Ablated** **Crayon**, **Syntium**, **Cinnamon Toasties**, **ThatLurker**, **Ogoobu**, thanks!

(Yes, I'm very much aware that I've repeated names here. Extra thanks! 8D)

Well, then, it's Emmy signing off for now, until next time!


	32. Chapter 31: Private Tragedies

**Chapter 31: Private Tragedies**

* * *

_Place one foot in front of the other and keep walking. Smile and wave at the dignitaries. Do not show any emotion; simply be the tia-aldyn of the Medjai. They know what has occurred between your betrothed and yourself. You know it. But no one will acknowledge it, not here._

_Let him take your hand. Be delicate. Seat yourself at his right side at the head of the table, make light conversation. Laugh as required and eat what is given to you. _

_No emotions. No anger. Not tonight, not before these people._

From where she sat within the palace's grand hall, Cordelia could feel hundreds of eyes upon her. Yet, she saw none of them in return; she was too busy reciting the verses in her head. At present, she found it difficult to believe she would, or even could, endure otherwise.

The hall was done up in all grandeur, fine fabrics in shades of golds and blues hanging from wall to wall. Shadows darted about corners, fleeing the wash of golden light as each nook became illuminated, in turn, by the crystal chandelier above. The long, gilded table running the length of the hall held a hundred seats to accommodate Lut Gholein's dignitaries, as well as their guests. It was feast to welcome, a splendid occasion to remember.

Yet, the sorceress noted as she reached for her goblet of bitter wine, there was little joy to show for it.

"We fully expect great things from the re-opening of the trade routes." Someone said to another, who simply nodded, albeit rather solemnly, in agreement. Cordelia found she had little interest in such matters just then, despite the upbringing offered to her and her sisters in Oberon's household. Her father had always insisted they kept their hands dipped into the dirty linens of politics and economy, nomadic as their lifestyles were. Such knowledge, he had stressed time and again, was more than useful for the survival of one's people.

She sipped her wine absently, pausing only to wrinkle her nose at the tangy bitterness of soured grape. The liquid burned her throat, but then she caught her mother glancing her way, and, by habit, schooled her lips and face to form the same aloof smile that she had worn all evening. Subtle, even imperceptible; Cordelia knew with absolute certainty that she merely appeared wine-sick to the average Lut Gholein nobleman. They would think only that she was disinclined towards the grape. She also knew, without a doubt, that her mother would not be so easily fooled.

Arlene Dymigar sat by her husband, slender fingers interlaced where they lay upon her lap. One crimson brow, perfectly mirrored by Cordelia's own, was arched in grim amusement; her eyes were upon her daughter's, amber-gold, half-lidded beneath heavy lashes. The round, bearded dignitary across her spoke animatedly, his every word punctuated with conversational gesticulations of his hand and sporadic laughs here and there, but she was distracted, her gaze never once shifting. For a moment or two, Cordelia marveled at her mother; clearly inattentive to her current conversation partner, she nonetheless appeared to be listening, the occasional brief nod of the head seemingly encouraging him to continue.

Then again, Arlene had always been the epitome of dignity and grace. Kind, wise, yet stern when need be, she radiated poise and elegance; that which, among her three daughters, seemed dominant only in Asha. Estarra was cold, and Cordelia, rebellious.

All that, however, mattered little at present. Arlene was watching her, though not without a glint of sorrow within her eyes; sorrow for the happiness of her child, which, surely she knew, was forever forfeit. Cordelia noted, dourly, that her mother's eyes were rather less apt to brighten with a smile at present. It was as if the woman, elegant as she was, had aged a few years in the span of a few short months. The thought made her sick.

She looked away. She knew her mother watched her still, silent as the grave, alert as a hawk in hunt; yet Cordelia could not bear to face her mother at present. Jerhyn's voice caught her attention for a moment or two, his dulcet tones more than unusually crisp at present. She could only imagine that he, much like herself, stood in a state of clouded discontent far beyond measure.

Her thoughts were yet, again, punctuated by the rising of another prominent voice of formidable volumes. It was loud, but not obnoxiously so; simply clear enough for neighbouring diners to politely overhear, and, if they so desired, join in the conversation. Charming, warm, yet coy in its own manner, the honeyed cadence spoke with absolute confidence, jested radiantly, and offered compliments to even the dullest dignitary. Cordelia found she did not need to look to ascertain the owner of the voice, and, without quite meaning to, she pursed her lips, swallowing hard.

"Your nostrils are flaring, little sister. You had best check yourself before papa sees you seething at Asha again. I imagine he will chastise you sorely for it if he does."

Cordelia lifted her eyes, slanting her gaze aside towards where her sister sat. Estarra was smiling, it was true, but there was a slight strain about the corners of her crimson-painted lips, as if she were both unamused and bored. "Whatever do you mean?"

Estarra jerked her head lazily to the side, as if in some sort of a jaded gesture to point out the source of their mutual disgust. "You know what I mean."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Cordelia returned her sister's smile, sweet, yet bland in its own manner. Yet she followed the point of Estarra's gesture, shifting her gaze towards where Asha sat at Saul's right hand. He remarked at something, and she laughed in return. Cordelia found she could not stomach much of that scene, though to react further would be to prove Estarra correct. Instead, she turned her head, shifting so as to pointedly avoid looking at the two of them, then fixed blank eyes upon her middle sister. "I absolutely.. do.. not.. comprehend."

Estarra laughed, a dry, airy thing, though the tone of her voice was ever so slightly laced with mild antipathy, only just perceptible for one who listened closely. "Well, our eldest sister is certainly making a spectacle of herself, whether or not you comprehend. I think she is husband-hunting again."

"She won't get anything out of him. He has no wealth, no name, no family. She'll find that out soon enough." Cordelia thinned her lips, arching her back as she leaned forward upon the table. She could feel her collarbones showing from where she stressed her posture; it ached, but in an oddly agreeable manner. "And then she will throw him aside for better prospects."

"Perhaps it would have been better if father _had_ betrothed Asha to Jerhyn in your stead." Estarra observed mildly, then leaned forward, quietening a touch. Jerhyn had glanced aside just then, perhaps having heard his name, though Estarra simply smiled, rather more sweetly than usual, at him. He returned the smile with mutual politeness, evidently unawares, then turned away to continue in his conversation, some grueling debate on taxes in wartime. "You do not seem to mind his lack of wealth in the very least."

"Stop it. Things are what they are, and it's not as if I have my heart set on him." Cordelia muttered; she knew very well what Estarra thought of her lie, the knowledge of which was confirmed as the latter laughed. "Asha can have Saul, and I will marry Jerhyn just as our father wants. Everyone wins."

"Everyone wins." Estarra repeated in the manner of a reply, her tone dry. Cordelia watched as she turned deep blue eyes towards Asha, shifted aside to study Saul for a brief moment, her sharp, narrow nose wrinkling briefly. "For what it's worth, it really _is_ quite distasteful."

Cordelia could not help but to smile at that. And as she lifted her gaze to meet Estarra's wry, knowing smirk, she found, if anything, she had some comfort in her sister.

* * *

If Lut Gholein was the crown jewel of Aranoch, it could only be said that the palace was the crown jewel of Lut Gholein. Built in the year of the Great Desert Storm, a time where the elements were mankind's greatest threat, the palace had housed decades and centuries of kings, the forefathers and ancestors of Jerhyn's family tree. Gold-paned windows lined the exteriors, where gleaming white marble reflected the great lights of the sun and the moon. Colour-tinted glass chandeliers lit the halls, every inch within exuding grace, elegance, and grandeur.

Deeper and deeper into the lower bowels of the palace, one found intricately-furnished apartment complexes of silver and bronze, brightly lit with crystal sconces and golden candles. Plush divans lined with satins and velvets rested about the apartments, laden down with fat pillows of softest down. The apartments were sanctuary, places in which those who lived within the palace found peace, rest, and sweet slumber.

This was no longer the case.

Clumped bloodstains, fresh-stained crimson and dried, clumped brown matted the fabrics together and dyed the floors a river of death. Corpses; guards, servants, maidens lay strewn in various postures, defiled and broken by the stink of unrest and despair. Innards curled against corners, entrails forming pathways where, surely, victims of some demonic raid had been dragged away. Death hung heavy within the air.

The corpses littered the deeper underground levels of the palace, from living quarters, to kitchens, to servants' halls, to the dimly-lit caverns of the palace cellars. But the dead offered no trouble. Those with eyes intact simply stared blankly ahead, silent observers of the horrors that took place before the very face of their lifeless bodies.

Hours into the journey—or was it days, Saul found himself the unwilling witness of carnage that even he, seasoned as he was with the outcomes of Andariel's massacre, found difficult to swallow. The party was wearied; Araeya stood by his side, her brow creased in what seemed to be a perpetual scowl of disgust and exhaustion, though she would never let the latter show. Further along the corridor currently occupied by the Lut Gholein party, Baridth rested in an odd, yet well-measured sort of squat, the muscles of his calves rippling beneath the glimmering layers of his silver-scaled armour. His men, three in number, stood steadfast, silent sentinels that guarded the very shadows surrounding the small group.

Or what remained of it.

The hours had wrought far more than fatigue and exhaustion. Men had fallen—what meager number could be spared of Jerhyn's army, now decimated to numbers far beyond salvation was posted to follow the group on their mission. Eight they were, when they'd set out, and six remained. The others rested, now—rested eternally.

Saul watched Baridth for a moment or two, his own brow knitted beneath a layer of, what, surely must be sweat and blood. The young general was handsome, despite the scars that ran long and hard within his sun-worn skin. Dark, rugged curls fell loose about his head, matted to his scalp following hours cramped beneath the weight of a great helm, yet his features were sharp and undiminished. Regardless, Saul noted, the muscles of his own stomach clenching a little at the realisation, he was tired. It showed in the general's eyes, the pale hazel touched with a sort of weariness that seemed to all but suck the heart and soul from his face.

"Don't think so hard on things you can't change. That face does not suit you."

He glanced aside, roused from his thoughts by the tip of the shoe that had nudged the side of his own. Araeya met his gaze steadily, unperturbed by the wispy blonde feathers of her hair that rested messily over her face. "It's quite a sorry state to be in, however." He muttered, in manner of an answer. The men ignored him—perhaps they could not hear, or did not wish to.

Araeya stretched her arms upwards, and then to the side, eliciting several soft pops. "It is. But neither of us can do more, nor attempt to do more, than what we are already doing. What happen will happen. So why bother cracking a skull and a half over it? You might as well consider other things—those you _can_ change."

"Such as?"

She grinned, however wearily, at him. "Your lover's sister seems particularly enamoured with you. Change _that_."

Saul scowled. There was a cut at the side of his face—he had not noticed, before, but was party to it as his face contorted. The movement jarred, and it stung with blood and salted sweat alike. "She's not my lover."

"You don't deny that her sister was enamoured with you, then." Asha flipped her hair back carelessly. The golden locks were matted together with grime and stained oil. Yet there was no mistaking the airy, somewhat entertained expression upon her face. "She said little to others all night and had eyes only for you. For what it's worth."

"We're levels, Aya, _levels_ beneath the palace, heading into the depths of Gods-knows-what. Are you quite certain this is what you want to talk about?" Saul peered at her in the relative dimness of the corridor. More than anything, he was sure it would do nothing to quell her interest. He cursed himself for knowing—and cursed himself for trying, even then, to deflect it.

She was relentless, as was expected. Laughing dryly, she fixed sharp eyes upon his visage. "She likes you. That much is obvious."

"She spoke to _you_, also, last night. Does that mean she likes you too?" He countered.

"Hardly." Aya shrugged one shoulder, turning her gaze back towards the men, watching with mild disinterest as one drank the remains of his leather skin. "Besides, she asked me to pass the butter. That hardly counts as a conversation. What did she learn of you last eve? What did you learn of her? We sat there almost four hours, Saul, and she all but stared at you for three and a half of it. Had there been dancing, she would have hung off your arms all night."

He grunted. "She asked of my heritage and I told her. That's about all that passed between us." He paused, peering at her, knowing full well that his rejection of her logic would not be taken lightly. Then again, it took very little to grate at Araeya's nerves these days—she was getting increasingly short-tempered. He knew it, and she did. "Why, if I may hazard a question, are you so worked up over this? You sound as if you were jealous."

It was her turn to scowl. The sight made him smile, and he did so with great pleasure. "You, Saul…" She began, her tone dry as if she were somewhat disgusted at him. "…are living in a dream. You keep your head in the sand, and you think that all your troubles will disappear as long as you do not rise up to face them. Asha won't go away, however, not if you don't set her straight. You refuse to see the truth of this matter, and personally, I think it's because you're far too deeply in love with Cordelia to even dare consider another woman that way. Either way, you've got two choices. Just two." Araeya straightened, her chest swelling as she glowered down at him. "Either find some courage and fight for the woman you love, or learn to forget her and move the bloody hells on."

Somewhere along the corridor, a head turned to gaze curiously at them. Araeya was silent just then, having said her piece, though Saul was not quite inclined to believe that she would not yell at him if he chose to prick her again. If anything, the depth of her gaze as she stared him down was enough to warn him.

The truth of the matter, however, was that she was right. He found he did not want to admit it in the least—who would, after all? The eldest of the Medjai sisters had given him more than enough reason to believe she desired courtship. His previous experiences with romance had ended unhappily, or amiably; there were but three, after all. Mirai, a youthful indiscretion, now no more than a stranger to him. Raina, who loved another, and Illeria, who could not, and would not leave her family when he was forced to leave his.

There was likely a better time to ponder things of romance, but, even as he knelt, stretching the muscular fibres surrounding ankles and calves, Saul found he could consider nothing else. It was different with Cordelia. Somehow, in a way he discovered he could not name, it was different, always, with her. She saw through him, and with those eyes, ever begged to be released of her own fate. Oh, but she knew her duties, and understood the graces of the higher beings who had set her in her place. For a child with little experience in the real world, a child with a fearsome temper, naiveté to a point of being an annoyance, and due and undue pride to sink even the grandest of ships, she knew her place and duty. And she fought to do the right thing—though how hard, he remained uncertain. Certainly at times it felt as if she sought to release her feelings for him, but other times, in particular nights such as the previous had been, he thought he saw more within the depths of her eyes. A feeling of restlessness, a trapped spirit yearning to soar to freedom.

That much he saw in her. That much she allowed him to see, at the very least.

"She wants to do her duty." Saul muttered. The truth, at last—previously denied and quashed beneath the passion of his own adoration of her. "She needs to."

Araeya glanced back down at him. Empathy-riddled eyes lingered upon his face, and she smiled, grimly, apparently now less likely to bite. "So you know what to do. The question is, druid—why do you not do it?"

Saul sighed, shutting his eyes and rubbing his fist into the sockets. The pressure was comfort against the dull, throbbing pain plaguing his head. "I'll let her go. I have to, either way. She has her future, and I have mine." He paused a moment, then drew his hands away to gaze at the amazon. "What of you? If I let my love go—will you let yours in?"

She arched a brow at him, as if confused for a moment, but no longer than that. Realisation dawned upon her face almost immediately afterwards. She shrugged a shoulder lazily, her nose flaring a touch, though not with anger, nor annoyance. She was simply resigned. "There's nothing there. There can't be. Meshif wants so much more. I don't know how to give him more than what I already do."

"Which is—" Saul leaned forward, though he glanced back at her. "—what, precisely?"

Araeya laughed, though rather humourlessly. "Bodily pleasures, of course." Frankness won over—she was both unrepentant and mild. "Companionship at the end of a long and harsh day. That, I suppose, is something we both offer each other."

Saul wrinkled his nose, then glanced towards the men once more. Baridth had gotten to his feet; they were ready to move on. Heaving a sigh, he pushed himself upright, wincing at the downsurge of hot blood to the freed muscles of his lower limbs. His feet were weights – inappropriately heavy and oddly metallic. "Some would call that a relationship, you know."

"Some _would_." She admitted, turning her head to follow his gaze towards the men. Like him, she allowed her limbs the pleasure of a final stretch, deft fingers tensing upon the wood of her bow immediately after. "I don't, however. It is what it is."

"A union of bodily pleasures and nightly romps." Saul grunted. He was not quite inclined to be polite, nor proper—Araeya did not seem the sort to remand propriety, at any rate.

She laughed, though like before, her voice lacked humour. "Indeed. Now shut up and go on."

They trudged along in single-filed silence. Too weary even to manouevre ginger-sidesteps along entrail-ridden corridors, they instead ignored the steady crunch of heavy-booted feet upon dusted bones, bloody footsteps etched into what was surely once-clean stone floors. What hellspawn they encountered along the way was easily disposed of—deeper down, the catacombs housed death and silence, more the latter, than the former.

Saul was barely aware of it, at first, when the cries of shock reverberated about him. Behind him, Araeya grunted, lifting slender bow to aim into the relative darkness of the corridor ahead. None said it, but all knew—they had found a nest of demons. No helpless birdlings, were these.

Araeya fired, and her arrow, set ablaze beneath dancing flames of crimson and gold lit the way.

Baridth had charged ahead, his silver broadsword held at the ready to parry the blades of the sentinels that lined the path. There were too many to count—great, hulking demons, perhaps once men, with scissors and blades for hands. It was more than the metallic hiss of their swords that rang aloud within the putrid air; screams, yells, and gasps rang true from the mouths of Baridth's men. They were wearied from travel and war, but they, each of them, fought to survive.

For a moment or two, Saul found he could only watch, eyes wide, as Baridth ducked beneath low-swung blades, reaching out with one veined hand to grasp his opponent's wrist. His broadsword flashed silver in the dim light, and then the sentinel fell to the ground in a heap. Yet there were more, similarly set-upon by his men, who stood shoulder to shoulder, outnumbered even then.

"Move, druid!"

Araeya's roar was tinged with annoyance and desperation, and he could have sworn that she'd kicked him in the shins. More than anything, he wished to be free of the place, where the very blood of Nature was cut off by brick and stone. The amazon had made her way to his side, bow flexed as she took aim—moments later, the arrow found its mark within the throat of another vicious sentinel. He watched in dismay as it collapsed to the ground, bearing with it the corpse of what had once been a man of Lut Gholein.

He gnashed his teeth. One heavy hand moved before him, fisting roughly even as he drew that limb in circles—small at first, then widening to an arc near the size of his torso. For a moment or two, he doubted—but was heartened as the chilly winds within the depths of the cellars encircled that hand, moving upwards to bind about his wrist, and then his elbow. It was cool, like silken breath. Glancing aside, he saw Araeya focus, taking aim.

And, as she released her arrow, he released _his_. The frigid tempest that found its target wove ice about the hulking form of its victim. Petrified, the sentinel simply stared—but was soon shattered into nothingness as Araeya's arrow pierced its crystalline body.

They fired again, and again, he with alternating blasts of ice and wind, and she, with fire-laced arrows. Yet more came, and before long, he found himself panting with the effort. Baridth and what remained of his men were far from sight—he saw nothing but the flash of gold that streaked along the walls every time Araeya took aim, heard nothing beyond frantic screams and hisses. Like him, she grew wearier with every loosened arrow; this, he saw, however briefly as the light illuminated her sweat-damp brow.

He grunted. "Move back."

"What?" She glanced aside at him, slender fingers reaching to her belted quiver to withdraw another arrow. The lump in his throat confirmed his fears—it was almost empty. Yet she fired that arrow, watching with grim satisfaction as it split into three, all finding targets in head, throat, and stomach with bursts of warm light.

"Move back. We need to get away and regroup."

He thanked his gods as she took a step back. Privately, he doubted he had enough strength left with which to argue. For a moment or two, he peered into the darkness, though in vain. He could neither hear, nor see Baridth. He grunted, but there was a pit in the depths of his gut, where red-hot hands were twisting his insides into knots.

The breath of air that escaped his throat was cold. Yet, the air surrounding them grew steadily warmer as he flexed his right hand, the left gripping his staff hard. Behind him, Araeya let out a faint gasp, and deep within the recesses of his mind, he knew why. The ground crackled under their feet, the stones rattling as if the very foundations of the earth beneath them were troubled waters. Gusts of tepid air burst forth from the cracks between the stones.

And then, even as he stamped his foot into the ground, the stones fell away. The very earth exploded to form a fissure, crimson flames bursting forth to scour and burn. Coal-red lava swirled about the grounds, engulfing all in its path, even as he turned on his heels and reached for the amazon's wrist.

They ran along previously-trodden pathways, never once looking back. She panted, occasionally stumbling, until at last, they both fell. He felt her boot collide with the side of his face as she rolled over, but could only utter a grunt of resistance.

"Sorry." She panted. "—didn't mean to do that."

Saul grunted again, though to his chagrin, the sound came out rather like a moan. The pathetic whimper did little justice to his sentiments towards her at present, so he reached out to slap the side of her head. The accompanying yelp made him smile, if only a little.

"Bastard. You—" Araeya heaved, her voice cracked beneath some kind of strain; what, at present, he found he did not care to know. "—just destroyed Jerhyn's palace. Congratulations."

He tried to speak, but his throat was dry. Instead, the druid released a chuckle.

* * *

The shadows grew long as the last rays of the day's sun fell upon the Jewel City. It was hot, the whispering twilight winds blowing storms of golden sand across dune and stone. Night was close at hand—the city began to sleep. The long, winding street of Lut Gholein's marketplace quietened, dimly-lit at every stall with wax and oil. Fishmongers and producemen tossed away what remained, that had not been sold. Fabric merchants hastened away their stores, rolls of lustrous fabrics that echoed the glory of the city: silks, satins, velvets and brocades in all hues and patterns.

Tucked away into its corner beyond the locus of the marketplace, Drognan's home could hardly be considered a shop. It was true that he traded—years spent studying the arcane had brought about his desire to hoard items of magic, items of the arcane. Wands, staffs, and staves lay in iron-cast handles inset within the walls of his outer quarters, on display. In true Lut Gholein fashion, he lined the walls with fabrics—gold and orange shielded the insides of his abode from the sun, and plush cushions upholstered in crimson velvet offered respite to weary travelers.

Or, at least, those whose company he enjoyed.

Cordelia leaned back in her seat, shifting briefly. The large tome held upon her lap slanted inwards towards her chest; the words were lost to her. It weighed heavily upon her—though in more ways than one.

"Drognan?" She queried, her voice quiet.

The magus sat close by her, one arm propped against the richly-lacquered rosewood desk set between them. His brows were furrowed, eyes dark with concentration as they scanned the expanse of the page open before him. He let out a grunt of acknowledgement.

Cordelia bit her lip. For a moment or two, she wondered if his acknowledgement had been a show of politeness, as opposed to actual interest in what she had to say. She sighed. "…it's been hours. Almost twelve."

He took his time—likely to finish a sentence. Yet when he raised his eyes to her, she saw a strained sort of worry, as if he, too, were anxious for the fate of those deep beneath the city.

Those, who even then, fought to protect that which they loved. Their land. Their honour.

Their people.

"Almost twelve." He affirmed, his voice equally quiet. "You worry for them." It was not a question.

"Them, yes." She admitted this easily—then bit her lip and glanced away as he smiled.

"Saul, too."

She dared herself to meet his eyes. Kind, warm—lacking in accusation, as her father's had been. Lacking in calculative schemes, as Asha's was apt to be. "Saul, too." She breathed.

If he was, at all, surprised at her admission, Drognan did not show it. His face retained its neutral visage as one slender-fingered hand moved to pluck silver glasses from his eyes. "You are to marry our Prince." Simple words—yet, like a pinprick to the heart. His eyes were softer, now, as if he had found some measure of understanding with which to consider her situation. "Child, you walk a thin rope."

Cordelia managed a wry smile. Part of her wanted to laugh. "That won't matter if he doesn't come back alive, now. At any rate… it's not as if I have a choice in the matter. Women are pawns in the game of alliances."

He blinked placidly at her, turning a touch. "Are they?"

"Are they not?" She frowned.

Drognan smiled—and she saw the irony, yet truth in the curve of his lips, and in the twinkle of his eyes. "That is for you to say. The decision is yours to make, child. It was always yours—only, it is a difficult decision to make. Sometimes, we are lost—but that does not change the fact that you, and only you alone, can change the road you walk. No one else can make you go where you do not want."

"A man might bind his daughter to a fate chooses. She belongs to him." She leveled her gaze, never once breaking away from the sight of his own eyes. "How does she change _her_ fate?"

"Child, no matter what the circumstances, a man will always do well to remember that it was a _woman_ who birthed him. I trust Oberon remembers. And if he does not, then it is up to you to honour yourself as a woman with pride and dignity." The magus leaned back in his seat, his expression somewhat mild. He regarded her, in that moment, not as an elder—but as a friend, capable of offering comfort with wit and cynicism. If anything, his face said such. "You were never one to follow rules, anyway. Not even when you were younger."

Cordelia chuckled dryly. Eyes rolled of their own accord. Yet she found she had nothing to say, and instead, pursed her lips. "What they're facing down there—Drognan, do you know?"

He sighed, then met her gaze squarely. For a moment or two, she learnt to appreciate just how old he had gotten. "Who can say? They are far beyond our reach, now."

"Far… beyond our reach." Cordelia echoed his words, her voice low. She was only just slightly aware of how the faint tremors wove themselves about her body, rendered her a poor, shivering child. She shut her eyes, clenching her teeth.

And prayed for the survival of one she had learnt to love.

* * *

They slept.

How long, Saul wasn't quite inclined to discover. When at last he woke, it was to darkness—though, from deep within the belly of the cellars, it seemed the time of day was inconsequential. The smell of blood and metal hung thick within the cold air; grimy soot clung to his skin, as if glued therein with sweat and tears. The floor was rough beneath his back.

He grunted.

Beside him, a body stirred. One warm arm was woven about his own, as if to keep him close. The darkness swallowed all else.

"Aya?"

The amazon heaved a quiet sigh as the grip upon his arm loosened somewhat. He felt the brief tension of her body as she stretched, then sat up as she did, the fabric of their clothes rustling against the friction of the ground. Her voice was hoarse. "This is bad."

He managed a weak chuckle, then lifted one hand to rub at the back of his head. "There's nothing for it. We'll have to keep moving. I don't know about you, but I'm not planning on dying in here."

"In here? Gods, no. You've got far too much to say, and I've got more to see." Araeya swallowed several times, the dry gulps giving way to a series of coughs. She growled under her breath, then shook her head in the relative darkness as he made to pat her back. "I'm fine. Get up?"

The walls were slick beneath his fingers as he scrabbled at them in his attempt to get to his feet. Beside him, Araeya made a likewise attempt, exhaling tiredly as she stood up straight.

"Onwards, then."

They moved in silence; he, leading, and she following, for once, not at all inclined to offer some feminist remark. If anything, she seemed completely at ease to trail behind, one strong hand clutching onto the back of his shirt as they moved. Far better, he imagined, than finding oneself lost and alone. For that, at the very least, he was grateful. She counted footsteps as they walked, and he heard the quiet breaths that accompanied every step they took.

_Thirty two. Thirty three._

The corridors were narrow, but they made their way hence without much difficulty. What demonkin they had expected to meet did not come—they went, unhindered.

_Seventy eight. Seventy nine._

On and on the corridors wound, snaking corners and endless halls. When at last they came into light, it was a dim sort of glow; not warm, yet not entirely cold. It was merely that—dim, dull light that bounced off the walls from where their torches were held. Enough to illuminate blood-stained walls and grimy floors. The air hung thick with musk and, heavy with death.

There was relief, but only briefly so. Trepidation cloaked all. Echoes arose; soft, musical notes that painted an eerie backdrop against the relative silence. Faint whispers of a lonely, lilting melody—some dark, forgotten hymn to the heathen gods of old. For a moment or two, the druid wondered if his mind had been addled. And knew himself sane as the sounds yet again arose.

He swallowed. "I can hear _singing_."

Araeya blinked, then glanced about. When at last she turned to face Saul once more, he saw that she was slightly green in the face, though that did little to comfort him. If it caused Araeya to worry, it was bad. "Singing? As in, singing at the chapel?"

"You can't hear it?"

"I can." She muttered, dryly. "I was hoping it was just a telltale sign of my going mad. Like those bells you hear. As it is…" She paused, flexing her fingers where they rested loosely at the center of her lax bowstring. "…I think we may be meeting more than just a band of troubadours in here."

"Or _one_ troubadour. It sounds like a woman." The words escaped gnashed teeth—Saul found he had little patience, nor strength saved to say more. He walked—and then did a double take.

Araeya swore as she collided heavily into his back. Strings of ancient curses found their way into his ears; irritable, and perhaps a touch uneasy, he found she was far easier than normal to antagonise. Apology, however, was the last thing on his mind.

He hissed, clutching her wrist. "Shh. Look up there."

"Where?" She scowled—then squinted into the dimness ahead. He fancied she sought to seek more; if anything, her eyes narrowed, lips thinning. "There's definitely a person in there." She confirmed, her voice low.

Saul sighed; Araeya's face confirmed his worst fears. She managed a grim smile, then jerked her head towards the source of their trepidation. A feline-like stealth replaced her weariness; languidly, with an almost seductive sort of grace, she placed her index finger to blood-stained lips, motioning for him to be silent. Slender fingers reached for an arrow, quickly notched to the string of her bow even as she took a measured step forward.

The singing ground to a slow and steady halt. Gleaming aqua eyes widened at the sight of the adventurers, riddled with fear and the knowledge of discovery. The owner of the voice sat naked, perched upon a pile of rubble. Long silvery hair cascaded to the floor, barely-curling tips strewn over hay-covered stone—tendrils fell to shield the bountiful mounds of her pristine physique. She stared between druid and amazon, head tilted as if to consider them both. Breathtakingly beautiful, yet in her way, dangerous. Perhaps she was the child of seduction and sin, made whole.

"Oh, gods." Araeya breathed. Before so beautiful a creature, Saul found the amazon lacking—dirtied and soot-covered, with shaggy hair so inelegantly shorn. "Don't—"

He swallowed, then gritted his teeth. The word hung upon his lips, even as he dared himself to look the woman in the eye. The demoness. "Siren."

And, even as he brought his hand low to sweep forth what defenses he could from the earth, the demoness stood—leapt through the air, hair sweeping from the motions even as she dodged Araeya's arrows. For a moment, Saul stood, transfixed, separated from the demoness by only a wall woven of what meager vines had answered his call. Then, the moment shattered, and from the ceiling came the invisible tempest that threatened to drown, to sweep them away.

He opened his mouth to scream, but found only the bitter chill of a watery doom. In the darkness, he found Araeya's hand—gripped it tight. Then, as the siren began to sing once more, allowed himself to be taken into the fold of nothingness.

* * *

**Author's note:** Before any of you say anything—yes, I know. I suck, I'm horrible, I deserve to be fed to the wolves. Don't hurt me! I am now officially working as a writer, yes, so casual writing for me has taken something of a turn. I am very glad, though, that I've managed to finally squeeze this chapter out. It's been sitting in my files for ages—through a computer change, through the release of Diablo III, and through a lot of planning with my partner-in-crime, **Ophelion**. If there's anyone to thank for my determination in getting this fic to the end no matter what, it's her.

Thanks also to the rest of you faithful readers, old and new. I'm sorry I've disappointed you all with the long wait, and I hope you'll continue to take this ride with me as I GO ON TO FINISH THIS FIC.

Also, if any of you are wondering, yes. I AM enjoying Diablo III, even if majority of the angry people in the Blizzard forums are crying bloody murder about it. I personally enjoy the game, even though I think it could be better. But hey, what can claim to be perfect in this day and age? I say, enjoy what you're given, and I certainly intend to enjoy. And yes, there WILL be a fanfic from me, partially anyway, with regards to Diablo III.

Until then, do look forward to my next chapter, **"Into the Arcane"**—hopefully that won't take a year, aha! Do review if you can, and drop me a line! They're always much appreciated! Cheers!


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